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diff --git a/876-0.txt b/876-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f73fa6 --- /dev/null +++ b/876-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1973 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Life in the Iron-Mills, by Rebecca Harding Davis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Life in the Iron-Mills + +Author: Rebecca Harding Davis + +Posting Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #876] +Release Date: April 1997 +Last Updated: March 4, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS *** + + + + + + + + + + +LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS + +by Rebecca Harding Davis + + + “Is this the end? + O Life, as futile, then, as frail! + What hope of answer or redress?” + + +A cloudy day: do you know what that is in a town of iron-works? The sky +sank down before dawn, muddy, flat, immovable. The air is thick, clammy +with the breath of crowded human beings. It stifles me. I open the +window, and, looking out, can scarcely see through the rain the grocer's +shop opposite, where a crowd of drunken Irishmen are puffing Lynchburg +tobacco in their pipes. I can detect the scent through all the foul +smells ranging loose in the air. + +The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls sullenly in slow folds +from the great chimneys of the iron-foundries, and settles down in +black, slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves, smoke on +the dingy boats, on the yellow river,--clinging in a coating of greasy +soot to the house-front, the two faded poplars, the faces of the +passers-by. The long train of mules, dragging masses of pig-iron through +the narrow street, have a foul vapor hanging to their reeking sides. +Here, inside, is a little broken figure of an angel pointing upward from +the mantel-shelf; but even its wings are covered with smoke, clotted +and black. Smoke everywhere! A dirty canary chirps desolately in a +cage beside me. Its dream of green fields and sunshine is a very old +dream,--almost worn out, I think. + +From the back-window I can see a narrow brick-yard sloping down to +the river-side, strewed with rain-butts and tubs. The river, dull and +tawny-colored, (la belle riviere!) drags itself sluggishly along, tired +of the heavy weight of boats and coal-barges. What wonder? When I was a +child, I used to fancy a look of weary, dumb appeal upon the face of the +negro-like river slavishly bearing its burden day after day. Something +of the same idle notion comes to me to-day, when from the street-window +I look on the slow stream of human life creeping past, night and +morning, to the great mills. Masses of men, with dull, besotted faces +bent to the ground, sharpened here and there by pain or cunning; skin +and muscle and flesh begrimed with smoke and ashes; stooping all night +over boiling caldrons of metal, laired by day in dens of drunkenness and +infamy; breathing from infancy to death an air saturated with fog and +grease and soot, vileness for soul and body. What do you make of a case +like that, amateur psychologist? You call it an altogether serious thing +to be alive: to these men it is a drunken jest, a joke,--horrible to +angels perhaps, to them commonplace enough. My fancy about the river was +an idle one: it is no type of such a life. What if it be stagnant and +slimy here? It knows that beyond there waits for it odorous sunlight, +quaint old gardens, dusky with soft, green foliage of apple-trees, and +flushing crimson with roses,--air, and fields, and mountains. The future +of the Welsh puddler passing just now is not so pleasant. To be stowed +away, after his grimy work is done, in a hole in the muddy graveyard, +and after that, not air, nor green fields, nor curious roses. + +Can you see how foggy the day is? As I stand here, idly tapping the +windowpane, and looking out through the rain at the dirty back-yard and +the coalboats below, fragments of an old story float up before me,--a +story of this house into which I happened to come to-day. You may think +it a tiresome story enough, as foggy as the day, sharpened by no sudden +flashes of pain or pleasure.--I know: only the outline of a dull life, +that long since, with thousands of dull lives like its own, was vainly +lived and lost: thousands of them, massed, vile, slimy lives, like those +of the torpid lizards in yonder stagnant water-butt.--Lost? There is a +curious point for you to settle, my friend, who study psychology in a +lazy, dilettante way. Stop a moment. I am going to be honest. This is +what I want you to do. I want you to hide your disgust, take no heed +to your clean clothes, and come right down with me,--here, into the +thickest of the fog and mud and foul effluvia. I want you to hear this +story. There is a secret down here, in this nightmare fog, that has lain +dumb for centuries: I want to make it a real thing to you. You, Egoist, +or Pantheist, or Arminian, busy in making straight paths for your feet +on the hills, do not see it clearly,--this terrible question which men +here have gone mad and died trying to answer. I dare not put this secret +into words. I told you it was dumb. These men, going by with drunken +faces and brains full of unawakened power, do not ask it of Society or +of God. Their lives ask it; their deaths ask it. There is no reply. I +will tell you plainly that I have a great hope; and I bring it to you +to be tested. It is this: that this terrible dumb question is its own +reply; that it is not the sentence of death we think it, but, from the +very extremity of its darkness, the most solemn prophecy which the world +has known of the Hope to come. I dare make my meaning no clearer, but +will only tell my story. It will, perhaps, seem to you as foul and dark +as this thick vapor about us, and as pregnant with death; but if your +eyes are free as mine are to look deeper, no perfume-tinted dawn will be +so fair with promise of the day that shall surely come. + +My story is very simple,--Only what I remember of the life of one +of these men,--a furnace-tender in one of Kirby & John's +rolling-mills,--Hugh Wolfe. You know the mills? They took the great +order for the lower Virginia railroads there last winter; run usually +with about a thousand men. I cannot tell why I choose the half-forgotten +story of this Wolfe more than that of myriads of these furnace-hands. +Perhaps because there is a secret, underlying sympathy between that +story and this day with its impure fog and thwarted sunshine,--or +perhaps simply for the reason that this house is the one where the +Wolfes lived. There were the father and son,--both hands, as I said, +in one of Kirby & John's mills for making railroad-iron,--and Deborah, +their cousin, a picker in some of the cotton-mills. The house was rented +then to half a dozen families. The Wolfes had two of the cellar-rooms. +The old man, like many of the puddlers and feeders of the mills, was +Welsh,--had spent half of his life in the Cornish tin-mines. You may +pick the Welsh emigrants, Cornish miners, out of the throng passing the +windows, any day. They are a trifle more filthy; their muscles are not +so brawny; they stoop more. When they are drunk, they neither yell, nor +shout, nor stagger, but skulk along like beaten hounds. A pure, +unmixed blood, I fancy: shows itself in the slight angular bodies and +sharply-cut facial lines. It is nearly thirty years since the Wolfes +lived here. Their lives were like those of their class: incessant +labor, sleeping in kennel-like rooms, eating rank pork and molasses, +drinking--God and the distillers only know what; with an occasional +night in jail, to atone for some drunken excess. Is that all of their +lives?--of the portion given to them and these their duplicates swarming +the streets to-day?--nothing beneath?--all? So many a political reformer +will tell you,--and many a private reformer, too, who has gone among +them with a heart tender with Christ's charity, and come out outraged, +hardened. + +One rainy night, about eleven o'clock, a crowd of half-clothed women +stopped outside of the cellar-door. They were going home from the +cotton-mill. + +“Good-night, Deb,” said one, a mulatto, steadying herself against the +gas-post. She needed the post to steady her. So did more than one of +them. + +“Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best come.” + +“Inteet, Deb, if hur'll come, hur'll hef fun,” said a shrill Welsh voice +in the crowd. + +Two or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch the gown of the woman, +who was groping for the latch of the door. + +“No.” + +“No? Where's Kit Small, then?” + +“Begorra! on the spools. Alleys behint, though we helped her, we dud. +An wid ye! Let Deb alone! It's ondacent frettin' a quite body. Be the +powers, an we'll have a night of it! there'll be lashin's o' drink,--the +Vargent be blessed and praised for't!” + +They went on, the mulatto inclining for a moment to show fight, and drag +the woman Wolfe off with them; but, being pacified, she staggered away. + +Deborah groped her way into the cellar, and, after considerable +stumbling, kindled a match, and lighted a tallow dip, that sent a yellow +glimmer over the room. It was low, damp,--the earthen floor covered with +a green, slimy moss,--a fetid air smothering the breath. Old Wolfe lay +asleep on a heap of straw, wrapped in a torn horse-blanket. He was a +pale, meek little man, with a white face and red rabbit-eyes. The woman +Deborah was like him; only her face was even more ghastly, her lips +bluer, her eyes more watery. She wore a faded cotton gown and a +slouching bonnet. When she walked, one could see that she was deformed, +almost a hunchback. She trod softly, so as not to waken him, and went +through into the room beyond. There she found by the half-extinguished +fire an iron saucepan filled with cold boiled potatoes, which she put +upon a broken chair with a pint-cup of ale. Placing the old candlestick +beside this dainty repast, she untied her bonnet, which hung limp and +wet over her face, and prepared to eat her supper. It was the first +food that had touched her lips since morning. There was enough of it, +however: there is not always. She was hungry,--one could see that easily +enough,--and not drunk, as most of her companions would have been +found at this hour. She did not drink, this woman,--her face told that, +too,--nothing stronger than ale. Perhaps the weak, flaccid wretch had +some stimulant in her pale life to keep her up,--some love or hope, it +might be, or urgent need. When that stimulant was gone, she would take +to whiskey. Man cannot live by work alone. While she was skinning the +potatoes, and munching them, a noise behind her made her stop. + +“Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness. +“Janey, are you there?” + +A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl +emerged, staring sleepily at the woman. + +“Deborah,” she said, at last, “I'm here the night.” + +“Yes, child. Hur's welcome,” she said, quietly eating on. + +The girl's face was haggard and sickly; her eyes were heavy with sleep +and hunger: real Milesian eyes they were, dark, delicate blue, glooming +out from black shadows with a pitiful fright. + +“I was alone,” she said, timidly. + +“Where's the father?” asked Deborah, holding out a potato, which the +girl greedily seized. + +“He's beyant,--wid Haley,--in the stone house.” (Did you ever hear the +word tail from an Irish mouth?) “I came here. Hugh told me never to stay +me-lone.” + +“Hugh?” + +“Yes.” + +A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added quickly,-- + +“I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts +till the mornin'.” + +The woman sprang up, and hastily began to arrange some bread and flitch +in a tin pail, and to pour her own measure of ale into a bottle. Tying +on her bonnet, she blew out the candle. + +“Lay ye down, Janey dear,” she said, gently, covering her with the old +rags. “Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur's hungry. + +“Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp.” + +“To the mill, with Hugh's supper.” + +“Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down.” + +“No, no,”--sharply pushing her off. “The boy'll starve.” + +She hurried from the cellar, while the child wearily coiled herself up +for sleep. The rain was falling heavily, as the woman, pail in hand, +emerged from the mouth of the alley, and turned down the narrow street, +that stretched out, long and black, miles before her. Here and there a +flicker of gas lighted an uncertain space of muddy footwalk and gutter; +the long rows of houses, except an occasional lager-bier shop, were +closed; now and then she met a band of millhands skulking to or from +their work. + +Not many even of the inhabitants of a manufacturing town know the vast +machinery of system by which the bodies of workmen are governed, that +goes on unceasingly from year to year. The hands of each mill are +divided into watches that relieve each other as regularly as the +sentinels of an army. By night and day the work goes on, the unsleeping +engines groan and shriek, the fiery pools of metal boil and surge. Only +for a day in the week, in half-courtesy to public censure, the fires are +partially veiled; but as soon as the clock strikes midnight, the great +furnaces break forth with renewed fury, the clamor begins with fresh, +breathless vigor, the engines sob and shriek like “gods in pain.” + +As Deborah hurried down through the heavy rain, the noise of these +thousand engines sounded through the sleep and shadow of the city like +far-off thunder. The mill to which she was going lay on the river, a +mile below the city-limits. It was far, and she was weak, aching from +standing twelve hours at the spools. Yet it was her almost nightly walk +to take this man his supper, though at every square she sat down to +rest, and she knew she should receive small word of thanks. + +Perhaps, if she had possessed an artist's eye, the picturesque oddity +of the scene might have made her step stagger less, and the path seem +shorter; but to her the mills were only “summat deilish to look at by +night.” + +The road leading to the mills had been quarried from the solid rock, +which rose abrupt and bare on one side of the cinder-covered road, while +the river, sluggish and black, crept past on the other. The mills for +rolling iron are simply immense tent-like roofs, covering acres of +ground, open on every side. Beneath these roofs Deborah looked in on a +city of fires, that burned hot and fiercely in the night. Fire in every +horrible form: pits of flame waving in the wind; liquid metal-flames +writhing in tortuous streams through the sand; wide caldrons filled +with boiling fire, over which bent ghastly wretches stirring the +strange brewing; and through all, crowds of half-clad men, looking +like revengeful ghosts in the red light, hurried, throwing masses of +glittering fire. It was like a street in Hell. Even Deborah muttered, as +she crept through, “looks like t' Devil's place!” It did,--in more ways +than one. + +She found the man she was looking for, at last, heaping coal on a +furnace. He had not time to eat his supper; so she went behind the +furnace, and waited. Only a few men were with him, and they noticed her +only by a “Hyur comes t'hunchback, Wolfe.” + +Deborah was stupid with sleep; her back pained her sharply; and her +teeth chattered with cold, with the rain that soaked her clothes and +dripped from her at every step. She stood, however, patiently holding +the pail, and waiting. + +“Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come near to the fire,”--said +one of the men, approaching to scrape away the ashes. + +She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He turned, hearing the man, +and came closer. + +“I did no' think; gi' me my supper, woman.” + +She watched him eat with a painful eagerness. With a woman's quick +instinct, she saw that he was not hungry,--was eating to please her. Her +pale, watery eyes began to gather a strange light. + +“Is't good, Hugh? T' ale was a bit sour, I feared.” + +“No, good enough.” He hesitated a moment. “Ye're tired, poor lass! Bide +here till I go. Lay down there on that heap of ash, and go to sleep.” + +He threw her an old coat for a pillow, and turned to his work. The +heap was the refuse of the burnt iron, and was not a hard bed; the +half-smothered warmth, too, penetrated her limbs, dulling their pain and +cold shiver. + +Miserable enough she looked, lying there on the ashes like a limp, +dirty rag,--yet not an unfitting figure to crown the scene of hopeless +discomfort and veiled crime: more fitting, if one looked deeper into the +heart of things, at her thwarted woman's form, her colorless life, her +waking stupor that smothered pain and hunger,--even more fit to be a +type of her class. Deeper yet if one could look, was there nothing worth +reading in this wet, faded thing, halfcovered with ashes? no story of a +soul filled with groping passionate love, heroic unselfishness, fierce +jealousy? of years of weary trying to please the one human being whom +she loved, to gain one look of real heart-kindness from him? If +anything like this were hidden beneath the pale, bleared eyes, and dull, +washed-out-looking face, no one had ever taken the trouble to read its +faint signs: not the half-clothed furnace-tender, Wolfe, certainly. Yet +he was kind to her: it was his nature to be kind, even to the very rats +that swarmed in the cellar: kind to her in just the same way. She knew +that. And it might be that very knowledge had given to her face its +apathy and vacancy more than her low, torpid life. One sees that +dead, vacant look steal sometimes over the rarest, finest of women's +faces,--in the very midst, it may be, of their warmest summer's day; and +then one can guess at the secret of intolerable solitude that lies hid +beneath the delicate laces and brilliant smile. There was no warmth, no +brilliancy, no summer for this woman; so the stupor and vacancy had time +to gnaw into her face perpetually. She was young, too, though no one +guessed it; so the gnawing was the fiercer. + +She lay quiet in the dark corner, listening, through the monotonous din +and uncertain glare of the works, to the dull plash of the rain in the +far distance, shrinking back whenever the man Wolfe happened to look +towards her. She knew, in spite of all his kindness, that there was that +in her face and form which made him loathe the sight of her. She felt by +instinct, although she could not comprehend it, the finer nature of +the man, which made him among his fellow-workmen something unique, set +apart. She knew, that, down under all the vileness and coarseness of his +life, there was a groping passion for whatever was beautiful and pure, +that his soul sickened with disgust at her deformity, even when his +words were kindest. Through this dull consciousness, which never left +her, came, like a sting, the recollection of the dark blue eyes and +lithe figure of the little Irish girl she had left in the cellar. The +recollection struck through even her stupid intellect with a vivid glow +of beauty and of grace. Little Janey, timid, helpless, clinging to Hugh +as her only friend: that was the sharp thought, the bitter thought, that +drove into the glazed eyes a fierce light of pain. You laugh at it? Are +pain and jealousy less savage realities down here in this place I am +taking you to than in your own house or your own heart,--your heart, +which they clutch at sometimes? The note is the same, I fancy, be the +octave high or low. + +If you could go into this mill where Deborah lay, and drag out from the +hearts of these men the terrible tragedy of their lives, taking it as a +symptom of the disease of their class, no ghost Horror would terrify +you more. A reality of soul-starvation, of living death, that meets you +every day under the besotted faces on the street,--I can paint nothing +of this, only give you the outside outlines of a night, a crisis in the +life of one man: whatever muddy depth of soul-history lies beneath you +can read according to the eyes God has given you. + +Wolfe, while Deborah watched him as a spaniel its master, bent over the +furnace with his iron pole, unconscious of her scrutiny, only stopping +to receive orders. Physically, Nature had promised the man but little. +He had already lost the strength and instinct vigor of a man, his +muscles were thin, his nerves weak, his face ( a meek, woman's face) +haggard, yellow with consumption. In the mill he was known as one of +the girl-men: “Molly Wolfe” was his sobriquet. He was never seen in +the cockpit, did not own a terrier, drank but seldom; when he did, +desperately. He fought sometimes, but was always thrashed, pommelled to +a jelly. The man was game enough, when his blood was up: but he was no +favorite in the mill; he had the taint of school-learning on him,--not +to a dangerous extent, only a quarter or so in the free-school in fact, +but enough to ruin him as a good hand in a fight. + +For other reasons, too, he was not popular. Not one of themselves, they +felt that, though outwardly as filthy and ash-covered; silent, with +foreign thoughts and longings breaking out through his quietness in +innumerable curious ways: this one, for instance. In the neighboring +furnace-buildings lay great heaps of the refuse from the ore after the +pig-metal is run. Korl we call it here: a light, porous substance, of +a delicate, waxen, flesh-colored tinge. Out of the blocks of this korl, +Wolfe, in his off-hours from the furnace, had a habit of chipping and +moulding figures,--hideous, fantastic enough, but sometimes strangely +beautiful: even the mill-men saw that, while they jeered at him. It was +a curious fancy in the man, almost a passion. The few hours for rest he +spent hewing and hacking with his blunt knife, never speaking, until his +watch came again,--working at one figure for months, and, when it was +finished, breaking it to pieces perhaps, in a fit of disappointment. A +morbid, gloomy man, untaught, unled, left to feed his soul in grossness +and crime, and hard, grinding labor. + +I want you to come down and look at this Wolfe, standing there among the +lowest of his kind, and see him just as he is, that you may judge him +justly when you hear the story of this night. I want you to look back, +as he does every day, at his birth in vice, his starved infancy; to +remember the heavy years he has groped through as boy and man,--the +slow, heavy years of constant, hot work. So long ago he began, that he +thinks sometimes he has worked there for ages. There is no hope that it +will ever end. Think that God put into this man's soul a fierce thirst +for beauty,--to know it, to create it; to be--something, he knows not +what,--other than he is. There are moments when a passing cloud, the sun +glinting on the purple thistles, a kindly smile, a child's face, will +rouse him to a passion of pain,--when his nature starts up with a mad +cry of rage against God, man, whoever it is that has forced this vile, +slimy life upon him. With all this groping, this mad desire, a great +blind intellect stumbling through wrong, a loving poet's heart, the man +was by habit only a coarse, vulgar laborer, familiar with sights and +words you would blush to name. Be just: when I tell you about this +night, see him as he is. Be just,--not like man's law, which seizes on +one isolated fact, but like God's judging angel, whose clear, sad +eye saw all the countless cankering days of this man's life, all the +countless nights, when, sick with starving, his soul fainted in him, +before it judged him for this night, the saddest of all. + +I called this night the crisis of his life. If it was, it stole on him +unawares. These great turning-days of life cast no shadow before, slip +by unconsciously. Only a trifle, a little turn of the rudder, and the +ship goes to heaven or hell. + +Wolfe, while Deborah watched him, dug into the furnace of melting iron +with his pole, dully thinking only how many rails the lump would yield. +It was late,--nearly Sunday morning; another hour, and the heavy work +would be done, only the furnaces to replenish and cover for the next +day. The workmen were growing more noisy, shouting, as they had to do, +to be heard over the deep clamor of the mills. Suddenly they grew less +boisterous,--at the far end, entirely silent. Something unusual had +happened. After a moment, the silence came nearer; the men stopped their +jeers and drunken choruses. Deborah, stupidly lifting up her head, +saw the cause of the quiet. A group of five or six men were slowly +approaching, stopping to examine each furnace as they came. Visitors +often came to see the mills after night: except by growing less noisy, +the men took no notice of them. The furnace where Wolfe worked was near +the bounds of the works; they halted there hot and tired: a walk over +one of these great foundries is no trifling task. The woman, drawing out +of sight, turned over to sleep. Wolfe, seeing them stop, suddenly roused +from his indifferent stupor, and watched them keenly. He knew some +of them: the overseer, Clarke,--a son of Kirby, one of the +mill-owners,--and a Doctor May, one of the town-physicians. The other +two were strangers. Wolfe came closer. He seized eagerly every chance +that brought him into contact with this mysterious class that shone down +on him perpetually with the glamour of another order of being. What made +the difference between them? That was the mystery of his life. He had +a vague notion that perhaps to-night he could find it out. One of the +strangers sat down on a pile of bricks, and beckoned young Kirby to his +side. + +“This is hot, with a vengeance. A match, please?”--lighting his cigar. +“But the walk is worth the trouble. If it were not that you must have +heard it so often, Kirby, I would tell you that your works look like +Dante's Inferno.” + +Kirby laughed. + +“Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,”--pointing to some +figure in the shimmering shadows. + +“Judging from some of the faces of your men,” said the other, “they bid +fair to try the reality of Dante's vision, some day.” + +Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing the faces of his hands +for the first time. + +“They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I fancy. Eh, Clarke?” + +The overseer did not hear him. He was talking of net profits just +then,--giving, in fact, a schedule of the annual business of the firm to +a sharp peering little Yankee, who jotted down notes on a paper laid on +the crown of his hat: a reporter for one of the city-papers, getting up +a series of reviews of the leading manufactories. The other gentlemen +had accompanied them merely for amusement. They were silent until the +notes were finished, drying their feet at the furnaces, and sheltering +their faces from the intolerable heat. At last the overseer concluded +with-- + +“I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain.” + +“Here, some of you men!” said Kirby, “bring up those boards. We may as +well sit down, gentlemen, until the rain is over. It cannot last much +longer at this rate.” + +“Pig-metal,”--mumbled the reporter,--“um! coal facilities,--um! hands +employed, twelve hundred,--bitumen,--um!--all right, I believe, Mr. +Clarke;--sinking-fund,--what did you say was your sinking-fund?” + +“Twelve hundred hands?” said the stranger, the young man who had first +spoken. “Do you control their votes, Kirby?” + +“Control? No.” The young man smiled complacently. “But my father brought +seven hundred votes to the polls for his candidate last November. +No force-work, you understand,--only a speech or two, a hint to form +themselves into a society, and a bit of red and blue bunting to make +them a flag. The Invincible Roughs,--I believe that is their name. I +forget the motto: 'Our country's hope,' I think.” + +There was a laugh. The young man talking to Kirby sat with an amused +light in his cool gray eye, surveying critically the half-clothed +figures of the puddlers, and the slow swing of their brawny muscles. He +was a stranger in the city,--spending a couple of months in the +borders of a Slave State, to study the institutions of the South,--a +brother-in-law of Kirby's,--Mitchell. He was an amateur gymnast,--hence +his anatomical eye; a patron, in a blase' way, of the prize-ring; a man +who sucked the essence out of a science or philosophy in an indifferent, +gentlemanly way; who took Kant, Novalis, Humboldt, for what they were +worth in his own scales; accepting all, despising nothing, in heaven, +earth, or hell, but one-idead men; with a temper yielding and brilliant +as summer water, until his Self was touched, when it was ice, though +brilliant still. Such men are not rare in the States. + +As he knocked the ashes from his cigar, Wolfe caught with a quick +pleasure the contour of the white hand, the blood-glow of a red ring he +wore. His voice, too, and that of Kirby's, touched him like music,--low, +even, with chording cadences. About this man Mitchell hung the +impalpable atmosphere belonging to the thoroughbred gentleman, Wolfe, +scraping away the ashes beside him, was conscious of it, did obeisance +to it with his artist sense, unconscious that he did so. + +The rain did not cease. Clarke and the reporter left the mills; the +others, comfortably seated near the furnace, lingered, smoking +and talking in a desultory way. Greek would not have been more +unintelligible to the furnace-tenders, whose presence they soon forgot +entirely. Kirby drew out a newspaper from his pocket and read aloud some +article, which they discussed eagerly. At every sentence, Wolfe listened +more and more like a dumb, hopeless animal, with a duller, more stolid +look creeping over his face, glancing now and then at Mitchell, marking +acutely every smallest sign of refinement, then back to himself, seeing +as in a mirror his filthy body, his more stained soul. + +Never! He had no words for such a thought, but he knew now, in all the +sharpness of the bitter certainty, that between them there was a great +gulf never to be passed. Never! + +The bell of the mills rang for midnight. Sunday morning had dawned. +Whatever hidden message lay in the tolling bells floated past these men +unknown. Yet it was there. Veiled in the solemn music ushering the risen +Saviour was a key-note to solve the darkest secrets of a world gone +wrong,--even this social riddle which the brain of the grimy puddler +grappled with madly to-night. + +The men began to withdraw the metal from the caldrons. The mills were +deserted on Sundays, except by the hands who fed the fires, and those +who had no lodgings and slept usually on the ash-heaps. The three +strangers sat still during the next hour, watching the men cover the +furnaces, laughing now and then at some jest of Kirby's. + +“Do you know,” said Mitchell, “I like this view of the works better than +when the glare was fiercest? These heavy shadows and the amphitheatre +of smothered fires are ghostly, unreal. One could fancy these red +smouldering lights to be the half-shut eyes of wild beasts, and the +spectral figures their victims in the den.” + +Kirby laughed. “You are fanciful. Come, let us get out of the den. The +spectral figures, as you call them, are a little too real for me to +fancy a close proximity in the darkness,--unarmed, too.” + +The others rose, buttoning their overcoats, and lighting cigars. + +“Raining, still,” said Doctor May, “and hard. Where did we leave the +coach, Mitchell?” + +“At the other side of the works.--Kirby, what's that?” + +Mitchell started back, half-frightened, as, suddenly turning a corner, +the white figure of a woman faced him in the darkness,--a woman, white, +of giant proportions, crouching on the ground, her arms flung out in +some wild gesture of warning. + +“Stop! Make that fire burn there!” cried Kirby, stopping short. + +The flame burst out, flashing the gaunt figure into bold relief. + +Mitchell drew a long breath. + +“I thought it was alive,” he said, going up curiously. + +The others followed. + +“Not marble, eh?” asked Kirby, touching it. + +One of the lower overseers stopped. + +“Korl, Sir.” + +“Who did it?” + +“Can't say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in off-hours.” + +“Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a flesh-tint the stuff has! +Do you see, Mitchell?” + +“I see.” + +He had stepped aside where the light fell boldest on the figure, looking +at it in silence. There was not one line of beauty or grace in it: a +nude woman's form, muscular, grown coarse with labor, the powerful limbs +instinct with some one poignant longing. One idea: there it was in the +tense, rigid muscles, the clutching hands, the wild, eager face, like +that of a starving wolf's. Kirby and Doctor May walked around it, +critical, curious. Mitchell stood aloof, silent. The figure touched him +strangely. + +“Not badly done,” said Doctor May, “Where did the fellow learn that +sweep of the muscles in the arm and hand? Look at them! They are +groping, do you see?--clutching: the peculiar action of a man dying of +thirst.” + +“They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,” sneered Kirby, +glancing at the half-naked figures. + +“Look,” continued the Doctor, “at this bony wrist, and the strained +sinews of the instep! A working-woman,--the very type of her class.” + +“God forbid!” muttered Mitchell. + +“Why?” demanded May, “What does the fellow intend by the figure? I +cannot catch the meaning.” + +“Ask him,” said the other, dryly, “There he stands,”--pointing to Wolfe, +who stood with a group of men, leaning on his ash-rake. + +The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile which kind-hearted men +put on, when talking to these people. + +“Mr. Mitchell has picked you out as the man who did this,--I'm sure I +don't know why. But what did you mean by it?” + +“She be hungry.” + +Wolfe's eyes answered Mitchell, not the Doctor. + +“Oh-h! But what a mistake you have made, my fine fellow! You have given +no sign of starvation to the body. It is strong,--terribly strong. It +has the mad, half-despairing gesture of drowning.” + +Wolfe stammered, glanced appealingly at Mitchell, who saw the soul of +the thing, he knew. But the cool, probing eyes were turned on himself +now,--mocking, cruel, relentless. + +“Not hungry for meat,” the furnace-tender said at last. + +“What then? Whiskey?” jeered Kirby, with a coarse laugh. + +Wolfe was silent a moment, thinking. + +“I dunno,” he said, with a bewildered look. “It mebbe. Summat to make +her live, I think,--like you. Whiskey ull do it, in a way.” + +The young man laughed again. Mitchell flashed a look of disgust +somewhere,--not at Wolfe. + +“May,” he broke out impatiently, “are you blind? Look at that woman's +face! It asks questions of God, and says, 'I have a right to know,' Good +God, how hungry it is!” + +They looked a moment; then May turned to the mill-owner:-- + +“Have you many such hands as this? What are you going to do with them? +Keep them at puddling iron?” + +Kirby shrugged his shoulders. Mitchell's look had irritated him. + +“Ce n'est pas mon affaire. I have no fancy for nursing infant geniuses. +I suppose there are some stray gleams of mind and soul among these +wretches. The Lord will take care of his own; or else they can work out +their own salvation. I have heard you call our American system a ladder +which any man can scale. Do you doubt it? Or perhaps you want to banish +all social ladders, and put us all on a flat table-land,--eh, May?” + +The Doctor looked vexed, puzzled. Some terrible problem lay hid in this +woman's face, and troubled these men. Kirby waited for an answer, and, +receiving none, went on, warming with his subject. + +“I tell you, there's something wrong that no talk of 'Liberte' or +'Egalite' will do away. If I had the making of men, these men who do +the lowest part of the world's work should be machines,--nothing +more,--hands. It would be kindness. God help them! What are taste, +reason, to creatures who must live such lives as that?” He pointed to +Deborah, sleeping on the ash-heap. “So many nerves to sting them to +pain. What if God had put your brain, with all its agony of touch, into +your fingers, and bid you work and strike with that?” + +“You think you could govern the world better?” laughed the Doctor. + +“I do not think at all.” + +“That is true philosophy. Drift with the stream, because you cannot dive +deep enough to find bottom, eh?” + +“Exactly,” rejoined Kirby. “I do not think. I wash my hands of all +social problems,--slavery, caste, white or black. My duty to my +operatives has a narrow limit,--the pay-hour on Saturday night. Outside +of that, if they cut korl, or cut each other's throats, (the more +popular amusement of the two,) I am not responsible.” + +The Doctor sighed,--a good honest sigh, from the depths of his stomach. + +“God help us! Who is responsible?” + +“Not I, I tell you,” said Kirby, testily. “What has the man who pays +them money to do with their souls' concerns, more than the grocer or +butcher who takes it?” + +“And yet,” said Mitchell's cynical voice, “look at her! How hungry she +is!” + +Kirby tapped his boot with his cane. No one spoke. Only the dumb face of +the rough image looking into their faces with the awful question, “What +shall we do to be saved?” Only Wolfe's face, with its heavy weight +of brain, its weak, uncertain mouth, its desperate eyes, out of which +looked the soul of his class,--only Wolfe's face turned towards Kirby's. +Mitchell laughed,--a cool, musical laugh. + +“Money has spoken!” he said, seating himself lightly on a stone with the +air of an amused spectator at a play. “Are you answered?”--turning to +Wolfe his clear, magnetic face. + +Bright and deep and cold as Arctic air, the soul of the man lay tranquil +beneath. He looked at the furnace-tender as he had looked at a rare +mosaic in the morning; only the man was the more amusing study of the +two. + +“Are you answered? Why, May, look at him! 'De profundis clamavi.' Or, to +quote in English, 'Hungry and thirsty, his soul faints in him.' And so +Money sends back its answer into the depths through you, Kirby! Very +clear the answer, too!--I think I remember reading the same words +somewhere: washing your hands in Eau de Cologne, and saying, 'I am +innocent of the blood of this man. See ye to it!'” + +Kirby flushed angrily. + +“You quote Scripture freely.” + +“Do I not quote correctly? I think I remember another line, which may +amend my meaning? 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, +ye did it unto me.' Deist? Bless you, man, I was raised on the milk of +the Word. Now, Doctor, the pocket of the world having uttered its +voice, what has the heart to say? You are a philanthropist, in a small +Way,--n'est ce pas? Here, boy, this gentleman can show you how to cut +korl better,--or your destiny. Go on, May!” + +“I think a mocking devil possesses you to-night,” rejoined the Doctor, +seriously. + +He went to Wolfe and put his hand kindly on his arm. Something of a +vague idea possessed the Doctor's brain that much good was to be done +here by a friendly word or two: a latent genius to be warmed into life +by a waited-for sunbeam. Here it was: he had brought it. So he went on +complacently: + +“Do you know, boy, you have it in you to be a great sculptor, a great +man? do you understand?” (talking down to the capacity of his hearer: +it is a way people have with children, and men like Wolfe,)--“to live a +better, stronger life than I, or Mr. Kirby here? A man may make himself +anything he chooses. God has given you stronger powers than many +men,--me, for instance.” + +May stopped, heated, glowing with his own magnanimity. And it was +magnanimous. The puddler had drunk in every word, looking through the +Doctor's flurry, and generous heat, and self-approval, into his will, +with those slow, absorbing eyes of his. + +“Make yourself what you will. It is your right. + +“I know,” quietly. “Will you help me?” + +Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,-- + +“You know, Mitchell, I have not the means. You know, if I had, it is in +my heart to take this boy and educate him for”-- + +“The glory of God, and the glory of John May.” + +May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,-- + +“Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?--I have not the money, +boy,” to Wolfe, shortly. + +“Money?” He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed answer to a +riddle, doubtfully. “That is it? Money?” + +“Yes, money,--that is it,” said Mitchell, rising, and drawing his +furred coat about him. “You've found the cure for all the world's +diseases.--Come, May, find your good-humor, and come home. This +damp wind chills my very bones. Come and preach your Saint-Simonian +doctrines' to-morrow to Kirby's hands. Let them have a clear idea of the +rights of the soul, and I'll venture next week they'll strike for higher +wages. That will be the end of it.” + +“Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?” asked Kirby, +turning to Wolfe. + +He spoke kindly: it was his habit to do so. Deborah, seeing the puddler +go, crept after him. The three men waited outside. Doctor May walked up +and down, chafed. Suddenly he stopped. + +“Go back, Mitchell! You say the pocket and the heart of the world +speak without meaning to these people. What has its head to say? Taste, +culture, refinement? Go!” + +Mitchell was leaning against a brick wall. He turned his head +indolently, and looked into the mills. There hung about the place a +thick, unclean odor. The slightest motion of his hand marked that he +perceived it, and his insufferable disgust. That was all. May said +nothing, only quickened his angry tramp. + +“Besides,” added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, “it would +be of no use. I am not one of them.” + +“You do not mean”--said May, facing him. + +“Yes, I mean just that. Reform is born of need, not pity. No vital +movement of the people's has worked down, for good or evil; fermented, +instead, carried up the heaving, cloggy mass. Think back through +history, and you will know it. What will this lowest deep--thieves, +Magdalens, negroes--do with the light filtered through ponderous Church +creeds, Baconian theories, Goethe schemes? Some day, out of their bitter +need will be thrown up their own light-bringer,--their Jean Paul, their +Cromwell, their Messiah.” + +“Bah!” was the Doctor's inward criticism. However, in practice, he +adopted the theory; for, when, night and morning, afterwards, he prayed +that power might be given these degraded souls to rise, he glowed at +heart, recognizing an accomplished duty. + +Wolfe and the woman had stood in the shadow of the works as the coach +drove off. The Doctor had held out his hand in a frank, generous way, +telling him to “take care of himself, and to remember it was his right +to rise.” Mitchell had simply touched his hat, as to an equal, with a +quiet look of thorough recognition. Kirby had thrown Deborah some money, +which she found, and clutched eagerly enough. They were gone now, all +of them. The man sat down on the cinder-road, looking up into the murky +sky. + +“'T be late, Hugh. Wunnot hur come?” + +He shook his head doggedly, and the woman crouched out of his sight +against the wall. Do you remember rare moments when a sudden +light flashed over yourself, your world, God? when you stood on a +mountain-peak, seeing your life as it might have been, as it is? one +quick instant, when custom lost its force and every-day usage? when your +friend, wife, brother, stood in a new light? your soul was bared, and +the grave,--a foretaste of the nakedness of the Judgment-Day? So it came +before him, his life, that night. The slow tides of pain he had borne +gathered themselves up and surged against his soul. His squalid daily +life, the brutal coarseness eating into his brain, as the ashes into +his skin: before, these things had been a dull aching into his +consciousness; to-night, they were reality. He griped the filthy red +shirt that clung, stiff with soot, about him, and tore it savagely from +his arm. The flesh beneath was muddy with grease and ashes,--and the +heart beneath that! And the soul? God knows. + +Then flashed before his vivid poetic sense the man who had left +him,--the pure face, the delicate, sinewy limbs, in harmony with all he +knew of beauty or truth. In his cloudy fancy he had pictured a Something +like this. He had found it in this Mitchell, even when he idly +scoffed at his pain: a Man all-knowing, all-seeing, crowned by Nature, +reigning,--the keen glance of his eye falling like a sceptre on other +men. And yet his instinct taught him that he too--He! He looked at +himself with sudden loathing, sick, wrung his hands With a cry, and then +was silent. With all the phantoms of his heated, ignorant fancy, Wolfe +had not been vague in his ambitions. They were practical, slowly built +up before him out of his knowledge of what he could do. Through years +he had day by day made this hope a real thing to himself,--a clear, +projected figure of himself, as he might become. + +Able to speak, to know what was best, to raise these men and women +working at his side up with him: sometimes he forgot this defined hope +in the frantic anguish to escape, only to escape,--out of the wet, the +pain, the ashes, somewhere, anywhere,--only for one moment of free air +on a hill-side, to lie down and let his sick soul throb itself out in +the sunshine. But to-night he panted for life. The savage strength of +his nature was roused; his cry was fierce to God for justice. + +“Look at me!” he said to Deborah, with a low, bitter laugh, striking his +puny chest savagely. “What am I worth, Deb? Is it my fault that I am no +better? My fault? My fault?” + +He stopped, stung with a sudden remorse, seeing her hunchback shape +writhing with sobs. For Deborah was crying thankless tears, according to +the fashion of women. + +“God forgi' me, woman! Things go harder Wi' you nor me. It's a worse +share.” + +He got up and helped her to rise; and they went doggedly down the muddy +street, side by side. + +“It's all wrong,” he muttered, slowly,--“all wrong! I dunnot understan'. +But it'll end some day.” + +“Come home, Hugh!” she said, coaxingly; for he had stopped, looking +around bewildered. + +“Home,--and back to the mill!” He went on saying this over to himself, +as if he would mutter down every pain in this dull despair. + +She followed him through the fog, her blue lips chattering with cold. +They reached the cellar at last. Old Wolfe had been drinking since she +went out, and had crept nearer the door. The girl Janey slept heavily in +the corner. He went up to her, touching softly the worn white arm with +his fingers. Some bitterer thought stung him, as he stood there. He +wiped the drops from his forehead, and went into the room beyond, livid, +trembling. A hope, trifling, perhaps, but very dear, had died just then +out of the poor puddler's life, as he looked at the sleeping, innocent +girl,--some plan for the future, in which she had borne a part. He gave +it up that moment, then and forever. Only a trifle, perhaps, to us: his +face grew a shade paler,--that was all. But, somehow, the man's soul, as +God and the angels looked down on it, never was the same afterwards. + +Deborah followed him into the inner room. She carried a candle, which +she placed on the floor, closing the door after her. She had seen the +look on his face, as he turned away: her own grew deadly. Yet, as she +came up to him, her eyes glowed. He was seated on an old chest, quiet, +holding his face in his hands. + +“Hugh!” she said, softly. + +He did not speak. + +“Hugh, did hur hear what the man said,--him with the clear voice? Did +hur hear? Money, money,--that it wud do all?” + +He pushed her away,--gently, but he was worn out; her rasping tone +fretted him. + +“Hugh!” + +The candle flared a pale yellow light over the cobwebbed brick walls, +and the woman standing there. He looked at her. She was young, in +deadly earnest; her faded eyes, and wet, ragged figure caught from their +frantic eagerness a power akin to beauty. + +“Hugh, it is true! Money ull do it! Oh, Hugh, boy, listen till me! He +said it true! It is money!” + +“I know. Go back! I do not want you here.” + +“Hugh, it is t' last time. I'll never worrit hur again.” + +There were tears in her voice now, but she choked them back: + +“Hear till me only to-night! If one of t' witch people wud come, them we +heard oft' home, and gif hur all hur wants, what then? Say, Hugh!” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I mean money.” + +Her whisper shrilled through his brain. + +“If one oft' witch dwarfs wud come from t' lane moors to-night, and gif +hur money, to go out,--OUT, I say,--out, lad, where t' sun shines, and +t' heath grows, and t' ladies walk in silken gownds, and God stays +all t' time,--where t'man lives that talked to us to-night, Hugh +knows,--Hugh could walk there like a king!” + +He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but she went on, fierce in +her eager haste. + +“If I were t' witch dwarf, if I had t' money, wud hur thank me? Wud hur +take me out o' this place wid hur and Janey? I wud not come into the +gran' house hur wud build, to vex hur wid t' hunch,--only at night, when +t' shadows were dark, stand far off to see hur.” + +Mad? Yes! Are many of us mad in this way? + +“Poor Deb! poor Deb!” he said, soothingly. + +“It is here,” she said, suddenly, jerking into his hand a small roll. “I +took it! I did it! Me, me!--not hur! I shall be hanged, I shall be burnt +in hell, if anybody knows I took it! Out of his pocket, as he leaned +against t' bricks. Hur knows?” + +She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done, began to gather +chips together to make a fire, choking down hysteric sobs. + +“Has it come to this?” + +That was all he said. The Welsh Wolfe blood was honest. The roll was a +small green pocket-book containing one or two gold pieces, and a check +for an incredible amount, as it seemed to the poor puddler. He laid it +down, hiding his face again in his hands. + +“Hugh, don't be angry wud me! It's only poor Deb,--hur knows?” + +He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his. + +“Angry? God help me, no! Let me sleep. I am tired.” + +He threw himself heavily down on the wooden bench, stunned with pain and +weariness. She brought some old rags to cover him. + +It was late on Sunday evening before he awoke. I tell God's truth, when +I say he had then no thought of keeping this money. Deborah had hid it +in his pocket. He found it there. She watched him eagerly, as he took it +out. + +“I must gif it to him,” he said, reading her face. + +“Hur knows,” she said with a bitter sigh of disappointment. “But it is +hur right to keep it.” + +His right! The word struck him. Doctor May had used the same. He washed +himself, and went out to find this man Mitchell. His right! Why did this +chance word cling to him so obstinately? Do you hear the fierce devils +whisper in his ear, as he went slowly down the darkening street? + +The evening came on, slow and calm. He seated himself at the end of +an alley leading into one of the larger streets. His brain was clear +to-night, keen, intent, mastering. It would not start back, cowardly, +from any hellish temptation, but meet it face to face. Therefore the +great temptation of his life came to him veiled by no sophistry, but +bold, defiant, owning its own vile name, trusting to one bold blow for +victory. + +He did not deceive himself. Theft! That was it. At first the word +sickened him; then he grappled with it. Sitting there on a broken +cart-wheel, the fading day, the noisy groups, the church-bells' tolling +passed before him like a panorama, while the sharp struggle went on +within. This money! He took it out, and looked at it. If he gave it +back, what then? He was going to be cool about it. + +People going by to church saw only a sickly mill-boy watching them +quietly at the alley's mouth. They did not know that he was mad, or they +would not have gone by so quietly: mad with hunger; stretching out his +hands to the world, that had given so much to them, for leave to live +the life God meant him to live. His soul within him was smothering to +death; he wanted so much, thought so much, and knew--nothing. There was +nothing of which he was certain, except the mill and things there. +Of God and heaven he had heard so little, that they were to him what +fairy-land is to a child: something real, but not here; very far off. +His brain, greedy, dwarfed, full of thwarted energy and unused powers, +questioned these men and women going by, coldly, bitterly, that night. +Was it not his right to live as they,--a pure life, a good, true-hearted +life, full of beauty and kind words? He only wanted to know how to +use the strength within him. His heart warmed, as he thought of it. He +suffered himself to think of it longer. If he took the money? + +Then he saw himself as he might be, strong, helpful, kindly. The night +crept on, as this one image slowly evolved itself from the crowd of +other thoughts and stood triumphant. He looked at it. As he might be! +What wonder, if it blinded him to delirium,--the madness that underlies +all revolution, all progress, and all fall? + +You laugh at the shallow temptation? You see the error underlying +its argument so clearly,--that to him a true life was one of full +development rather than self-restraint? that he was deaf to the higher +tone in a cry of voluntary suffering for truth's sake than in the +fullest flow of spontaneous harmony? I do not plead his cause. I only +want to show you the mote in my brother's eye: then you can see clearly +to take it out. + +The money,--there it lay on his knee, a little blotted slip of paper, +nothing in itself; used to raise him out of the pit, something straight +from God's hand. A thief! Well, what was it to be a thief? He met the +question at last, face to face, wiping the clammy drops of sweat +from his forehead. God made this money--the fresh air, too--for his +children's use. He never made the difference between poor and rich. The +Something who looked down on him that moment through the cool gray sky +had a kindly face, he knew,--loved his children alike. Oh, he knew that! + +There were times when the soft floods of color in the crimson and purple +flames, or the clear depth of amber in the water below the bridge, had +somehow given him a glimpse of another world than this,--of an infinite +depth of beauty and of quiet somewhere,--somewhere, a depth of quiet +and rest and love. Looking up now, it became strangely real. The sun had +sunk quite below the hills, but his last rays struck upward, touching +the zenith. The fog had risen, and the town and river were steeped in +its thick, gray damp; but overhead, the sun-touched smoke-clouds opened +like a cleft ocean,--shifting, rolling seas of crimson mist, waves of +billowy silver veined with blood-scarlet, inner depths unfathomable of +glancing light. Wolfe's artist-eye grew drunk with color. The gates of +that other world! Fading, flashing before him now! What, in that world +of Beauty, Content, and Right, were the petty laws, the mine and thine, +of mill-owners and mill hands? + +A consciousness of power stirred within him. He stood up. A man,--he +thought, stretching out his hands,--free to work, to live, to love! +Free! His right! He folded the scrap of paper in his hand. As his +nervous fingers took it in, limp and blotted, so his soul took in the +mean temptation, lapped it in fancied rights, in dreams of improved +existences, drifting and endless as the cloud-seas of color. Clutching +it, as if the tightness of his hold would strengthen his sense of +possession, he went aimlessly down the street. It was his watch at the +mill. He need not go, need never go again, thank God!--shaking off the +thought with unspeakable loathing. + +Shall I go over the history of the hours of that night? how the +man wandered from one to another of his old haunts, with a +half-consciousness of bidding them farewell,--lanes and alleys and +back-yards where the mill-hands lodged,--noting, with a new eagerness, +the filth and drunkenness, the pig-pens, the ash-heaps covered with +potato-skins, the bloated, pimpled women at the doors, with a new +disgust, a new sense of sudden triumph, and, under all, a new, vague +dread, unknown before, smothered down, kept under, but still there? It +left him but once during the night, when, for the second time in his +life, he entered a church. It was a sombre Gothic pile, where the +stained light lost itself in far-retreating arches; built to meet the +requirements and sympathies of a far other class than Wolfe's. Yet +it touched, moved him uncontrollably. The distances, the shadows, the +still, marble figures, the mass of silent kneeling worshippers, the +mysterious music, thrilled, lifted his soul with a wonderful pain. +Wolfe forgot himself, forgot the new life he was going to live, the mean +terror gnawing underneath. The voice of the speaker strengthened the +charm; it was clear, feeling, full, strong. An old man, who had lived +much, suffered much; whose brain was keenly alive, dominant; whose heart +was summer-warm with charity. He taught it to-night. He held up Humanity +in its grand total; showed the great world-cancer to his people. Who +could show it better? He was a Christian reformer; he had studied the +age thoroughly; his outlook at man had been free, world-wide, over all +time. His faith stood sublime upon the Rock of Ages; his fiery zeal +guided vast schemes by which the Gospel was to be preached to all +nations. How did he preach it to-night? In burning, light-laden words he +painted Jesus, the incarnate Life, Love, the universal Man: words +that became reality in the lives of these people,--that lived again in +beautiful words and actions, trifling, but heroic. Sin, as he defined +it, was a real foe to them; their trials, temptations, were his. His +words passed far over the furnace-tender's grasp, toned to suit another +class of culture; they sounded in his ears a very pleasant song in an +unknown tongue. He meant to cure this world-cancer with a steady eye +that had never glared with hunger, and a hand that neither poverty nor +strychnine-whiskey had taught to shake. In this morbid, distorted heart +of the Welsh puddler he had failed. + +Eighteen centuries ago, the Master of this man tried reform in the +streets of a city as crowded and vile as this, and did not fail. +His disciple, showing Him to-night to cultured hearers, showing the +clearness of the God-power acting through Him, shrank back from one +coarse fact; that in birth and habit the man Christ was thrown up from +the lowest of the people: his flesh, their flesh; their blood, his +blood; tempted like them, to brutalize day by day; to lie, to steal: the +actual slime and want of their hourly life, and the wine-press he trod +alone. + +Yet, is there no meaning in this perpetually covered truth? If the son +of the carpenter had stood in the church that night, as he stood with +the fishermen and harlots by the sea of Galilee, before His Father and +their Father, despised and rejected of men, without a place to lay His +head, wounded for their iniquities, bruised for their transgressions, +would not that hungry mill-boy at least, in the back seat, have “known +the man”? That Jesus did not stand there. + +Wolfe rose at last, and turned from the church down the street. He +looked up; the night had come on foggy, damp; the golden mists had +vanished, and the sky lay dull and ash-colored. He wandered again +aimlessly down the street, idly wondering what had become of the +cloud-sea of crimson and scarlet. The trial-day of this man's life +was over, and he had lost the victory. What followed was mere drifting +circumstance,--a quicker walking over the path,--that was all. Do you +want to hear the end of it? You wish me to make a tragic story out of +it? Why, in the police-reports of the morning paper you can find a dozen +such tragedies: hints of shipwrecks unlike any that ever befell on the +high seas; hints that here a power was lost to heaven,--that there a +soul went down where no tide can ebb or flow. Commonplace enough the +hints are,--jocose sometimes, done up in rhyme. + +Doctor May a month after the night I have told you of, was reading to +his wife at breakfast from this fourth column of the morning-paper: +an unusual thing,--these police-reports not being, in general, choice +reading for ladies; but it was only one item he read. + +“Oh, my dear! You remember that man I told you of, that we saw at +Kirby's mill?--that was arrested for robbing Mitchell? Here he is; just +listen:--'Circuit Court. Judge Day. Hugh Wolfe, operative in Kirby & +John's Loudon Mills. Charge, grand larceny. Sentence, nineteen years +hard labor in penitentiary. Scoundrel! Serves him right! After all our +kindness that night! Picking Mitchell's pocket at the very time!” + +His wife said something about the ingratitude of that kind of people, +and then they began to talk of something else. + +Nineteen years! How easy that was to read! What a simple word for Judge +Day to utter! Nineteen years! Half a lifetime! + +Hugh Wolfe sat on the window-ledge of his cell, looking out. His ankles +Were ironed. Not usual in such cases; but he had made two desperate +efforts to escape. “Well,” as Haley, the jailer, said, “small blame +to him! Nineteen years' imprisonment was not a pleasant thing to look +forward to.” Haley was very good-natured about it, though Wolfe had +fought him savagely. + +“When he was first caught,” the jailer said afterwards, in telling the +story, “before the trial, the fellow was cut down at once,--laid there +on that pallet like a dead man, with his hands over his eyes. Never saw +a man so cut down in my life. Time of the trial, too, came the queerest +dodge of any customer I ever had. Would choose no lawyer. Judge gave him +one, of course. Gibson it Was. He tried to prove the fellow crazy; but +it wouldn't go. Thing was plain as daylight: money found on him. 'T was +a hard sentence,--all the law allows; but it was for 'xample's sake. +These mill-hands are gettin' onbearable. When the sentence was read, he +just looked up, and said the money was his by rights, and that all the +world had gone wrong. That night, after the trial, a gentleman came to +see him here, name of Mitchell,--him as he stole from. Talked to him for +an hour. Thought he came for curiosity, like. After he was gone, thought +Wolfe was remarkable quiet, and went into his cell. Found him very low; +bed all bloody. Doctor said he had been bleeding at the lungs. He was +as weak as a cat; yet if ye'll b'lieve me, he tried to get a-past me and +get out. I just carried him like a baby, and threw him on the pallet. +Three days after, he tried it again: that time reached the wall. Lord +help you! he fought like a tiger,--giv' some terrible blows. Fightin' +for life, you see; for he can't live long, shut up in the stone crib +down yonder. Got a death-cough now. 'T took two of us to bring him down +that day; so I just put the irons on his feet. There he sits, in there. +Goin' to-morrow, with a batch more of 'em. That woman, hunchback, tried +with him,--you remember?--she's only got three years. 'Complice. But +she's a woman, you know. He's been quiet ever since I put on irons: +giv' up, I suppose. Looks white, sick-lookin'. It acts different on 'em, +bein' sentenced. Most of 'em gets reckless, devilish-like. Some prays +awful, and sings them vile songs of the mills, all in a breath. That +woman, now, she's desper't'. Been beggin' to see Hugh, as she calls him, +for three days. I'm a-goin' to let her in. She don't go with him. Here +she is in this next cell. I'm a-goin' now to let her in.” + +He let her in. Wolfe did not see her. She crept into a corner of the +cell, and stood watching him. He was scratching the iron bars of +the window with a piece of tin which he had picked up, with an idle, +uncertain, vacant stare, just as a child or idiot would do. + +“Tryin' to get out, old boy?” laughed Haley. “Them irons will need a +crow-bar beside your tin, before you can open 'em.” + +Wolfe laughed, too, in a senseless way. + +“I think I'll get out,” he said. + +“I believe his brain's touched,” said Haley, when he came out. + +The puddler scraped away with the tin for half an hour. Still Deborah +did not speak. At last she ventured nearer, and touched his arm. + +“Blood?” she said, looking at some spots on his coat with a shudder. + +He looked up at her, “Why, Deb!” he said, smiling,--such a bright, +boyish smile, that it Went to poor Deborah's heart directly, and she +sobbed and cried out loud. + +“Oh, Hugh, lad! Hugh! dunnot look at me, when it wur my fault! To think +I brought hur to it! And I loved hur so! Oh lad, I dud!” + +The confession, even In this wretch, came with the woman's blush through +the sharp cry. + +He did not seem to hear her,--scraping away diligently at the bars with +the bit of tin. + +Was he going mad? She peered closely into his face. Something she saw +there made her draw suddenly back,--something which Haley had not seen, +that lay beneath the pinched, vacant look it had caught since the trial, +or the curious gray shadow that rested on it. That gray shadow,--yes, +she knew what that meant. She had often seen it creeping over women's +faces for months, who died at last of slow hunger or consumption. That +meant death, distant, lingering: but this--Whatever it was the woman +saw, or thought she saw, used as she was to crime and misery, seemed to +make her sick with a new horror. Forgetting her fear of him, she caught +his shoulders, and looked keenly, steadily, into his eyes. + +“Hugh!” she cried, in a desperate whisper,--“oh, boy, not that! for +God's sake, not that!” + +The vacant laugh went off his face, and he answered her in a muttered +word or two that drove her away. Yet the words were kindly enough. +Sitting there on his pallet, she cried silently a hopeless sort of +tears, but did not speak again. The man looked up furtively at her now +and then. Whatever his own trouble was, her distress vexed him with a +momentary sting. + +It was market-day. The narrow window of the jail looked down directly on +the carts and wagons drawn up in a long line, where they had unloaded. +He could see, too, and hear distinctly the clink of money as it changed +hands, the busy crowd of whites and blacks shoving, pushing one another, +and the chaffering and swearing at the stalls. Somehow, the sound, more +than anything else had done, wakened him up,--made the whole real to +him. He was done with the world and the business of it. He let the tin +fall, and looked out, pressing his face close to the rusty bars. How +they crowded and pushed! And he,--he should never walk that pavement +again! There came Neff Sanders, one of the feeders at the mill, with +a basket on his arm. Sure enough, Nyeff was married the other week. He +whistled, hoping he would look up; but he did not. He wondered if Neff +remembered he was there,--if any of the boys thought of him up there, +and thought that he never was to go down that old cinder-road again. +Never again! He had not quite understood it before; but now he did. Not +for days or years, but never!--that was it. + +How clear the light fell on that stall in front of the market! and how +like a picture it was, the dark-green heaps of corn, and the crimson +beets, and golden melons! There was another with game: how the light +flickered on that pheasant's breast, with the purplish blood dripping +over the brown feathers! He could see the red shining of the drops, it +was so near. In one minute he could be down there. It was just a step. +So easy, as it seemed, so natural to go! Yet it could never be--not in +all the thousands of years to come--that he should put his foot on that +street again! He thought of himself with a sorrowful pity, as of some +one else. There was a dog down in the market, walking after his master +with such a stately, grave look!--only a dog, yet he could go backwards +and forwards just as he pleased: he had good luck! Why, the very vilest +cur, yelping there in the gutter, had not lived his life, had been free +to act out whatever thought God had put into his brain; while he--No, he +would not think of that! He tried to put the thought away, and to listen +to a dispute between a countryman and a woman about some meat; but it +would come back. He, what had he done to bear this? + +Then came the sudden picture of what might have been, and now. He knew +what it was to be in the penitentiary, how it went with men there. He +knew how in these long years he should slowly die, but not until soul +and body had become corrupt and rotten,--how, when he came out, if he +lived to come, even the lowest of the mill-hands would jeer him,--how +his hands would be weak, and his brain senseless and stupid. He believed +he was almost that now. He put his hand to his head, with a puzzled, +weary look. It ached, his head, with thinking. He tried to quiet +himself. It was only right, perhaps; he had done wrong. But was there +right or wrong for such as he? What was right? And who had ever taught +him? He thrust the whole matter away. A dark, cold quiet crept through +his brain. It was all wrong; but let it be! It was nothing to him more +than the others. Let it be! + +The door grated, as Haley opened it. + +“Come, my woman! Must lock up for t' night. Come, stir yerself!” + +She went up and took Hugh's hand. + +“Good-night, Deb,” he said, carelessly. + +She had not hoped he would say more; but the tired pain on her mouth +just then was bitterer than death. She took his passive hand and kissed +it. + +“Hur'll never see Deb again!” she ventured, her lips growing colder and +more bloodless. + +What did she say that for? Did he not know it? Yet he would not be +impatient with poor old Deb. She had trouble of her own, as well as he. + +“No, never again,” he said, trying to be cheerful. + +She stood just a moment, looking at him. Do you laugh at her, standing +there, with her hunchback, her rags, her bleared, withered face, and the +great despised love tugging at her heart? + +“Come, you!” called Haley, impatiently. + +She did not move. + +“Hugh!” she whispered. + +It was to be her last word. What was it? + +“Hugh, boy, not THAT!” + +He did not answer. She wrung her hands, trying to be silent, looking in +his face in an agony of entreaty. He smiled again, kindly. + +“It is best, Deb. I cannot bear to be hurted any more. + +“Hur knows,” she said, humbly. + +“Tell my father good-bye; and--and kiss little Janey.” + +She nodded, saying nothing, looked in his face again, and went out of +the door. As she went, she staggered. + +“Drinkin' to-day?” broke out Haley, pushing her before him. “Where the +Devil did you get it? Here, in with ye!” and he shoved her into her +cell, next to Wolfe's, and shut the door. + +Along the wall of her cell there was a crack low down by the floor, +through which she could see the light from Wolfe's. She had discovered +it days before. She hurried in now, and, kneeling down by it, listened, +hoping to hear some sound. Nothing but the rasping of the tin on the +bars. He was at his old amusement again. Something in the noise jarred +on her ear, for she shivered as she heard it. Hugh rasped away at the +bars. A dull old bit of tin, not fit to cut korl with. + +He looked out of the window again. People were leaving the market now. +A tall mulatto girl, following her mistress, her basket on her head, +crossed the street just below, and looked up. She was laughing; but, +when she caught sight of the haggard face peering out through the bars, +suddenly grew grave, and hurried by. A free, firm step, a clear-cut +olive face, with a scarlet turban tied on one side, dark, shining eyes, +and on the head the basket poised, filled with fruit and flowers, under +which the scarlet turban and bright eyes looked out half-shadowed. The +picture caught his eye. It was good to see a face like that. He would +try to-morrow, and cut one like it. To-morrow! He threw down the tin, +trembling, and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up again, +the daylight was gone. + +Deborah, crouching near by on the other side of the wall, heard no +noise. He sat on the side of the low pallet, thinking. Whatever was the +mystery which the woman had seen on his face, it came out now slowly, +in the dark there, and became fixed,--a something never seen on his face +before. The evening was darkening fast. The market had been over for an +hour; the rumbling of the carts over the pavement grew more infrequent: +he listened to each, as it passed, because he thought it was to be for +the last time. For the same reason, it was, I suppose, that he strained +his eyes to catch a glimpse of each passer-by, wondering who they were, +what kind of homes they were going to, if they had children,--listening +eagerly to every chance word in the street, as if--(God be merciful to +the man! what strange fancy was this?)--as if he never should hear human +voices again. + +It was quite dark at last. The street was a lonely one. The last +passenger, he thought, was gone. No,--there was a quick step: Joe Hill, +lighting the lamps. Joe was a good old chap; never passed a fellow +without some joke or other. He remembered once seeing the place where +he lived with his wife. “Granny Hill” the boys called her. Bedridden she +Was; but so kind as Joe was to her! kept the room so clean!--and the old +woman, when he was there, was laughing at some of “t' lad's foolishness.” + The step was far down the street; but he could see him place the ladder, +run up, and light the gas. A longing seized him to be spoken to once +more. + +“Joe!” he called, out of the grating. “Good-bye, Joe!” + +The old man stopped a moment, listening uncertainly; then hurried +on. The prisoner thrust his hand out of the window, and called again, +louder; but Joe was too far down the street. It was a little thing; but +it hurt him,--this disappointment. + +“Good-bye, Joe!” he called, sorrowfully enough. + +“Be quiet!” said one of the jailers, passing the door, striking on it +with his club. + +Oh, that was the last, was it? + +There was an inexpressible bitterness on his face, as he lay down on the +bed, taking the bit of tin, which he had rasped to a tolerable degree +of sharpness, in his hand,--to play with, it may be. He bared his arms, +looking intently at their corded veins and sinews. Deborah, listening in +the next cell, heard a slight clicking sound, often repeated. She shut +her lips tightly, that she might not scream; the cold drops of sweat +broke over her, in her dumb agony. + +“Hur knows best,” she muttered at last, fiercely clutching the boards +where she lay. + +If she could have seen Wolfe, there was nothing about him to frighten +her. He lay quite still, his arms outstretched, looking at the pearly +stream of moonlight coming into the window. I think in that one hour +that came then he lived back over all the years that had gone before. +I think that all the low, vile life, all his wrongs, all his starved +hopes, came then, and stung him with a farewell poison that made him +sick unto death. He made neither moan nor cry, only turned his worn +face now and then to the pure light, that seemed so far off, as one that +said, “How long, O Lord? how long?” + +The hour was over at last. The moon, passing over her nightly path, +slowly came nearer, and threw the light across his bed on his feet. He +watched it steadily, as it crept up, inch by inch, slowly. It seemed to +him to carry with it a great silence. He had been so hot and tired there +always in the mills! The years had been so fierce and cruel! There was +coming now quiet and coolness and sleep. His tense limbs relaxed, and +settled in a calm languor. The blood ran fainter and slow from his +heart. He did not think now with a savage anger of what might be and was +not; he was conscious only of deep stillness creeping over him. At first +he saw a sea of faces: the mill-men,--women he had known, drunken and +bloated,--Janey's timid and pitiful-poor old Debs: then they floated +together like a mist, and faded away, leaving only the clear, pearly +moonlight. + +Whether, as the pure light crept up the stretched-out figure, it brought +with It calm and peace, who shall say? His dumb soul was alone with +God in judgment. A Voice may have spoken for it from far-off Calvary, +“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” Who dare say? +Fainter and fainter the heart rose and fell, slower and slower the moon +floated from behind a cloud, until, when at last its full tide of white +splendor swept over the cell, it seemed to wrap and fold into a deeper +stillness the dead figure that never should move again. Silence deeper +than the Night! Nothing that moved, save the black, nauseous stream of +blood dripping slowly from the pallet to the floor! + +There was outcry and crowd enough in the cell the next day. The coroner +and his jury, the local editors, Kirby himself, and boys with their +hands thrust knowingly into their pockets and heads on one side, jammed +into the corners. Coming and going all day. Only one woman. She +came late, and outstayed them all. A Quaker, or Friend, as they call +themselves. I think this woman Was known by that name in heaven. A +homely body, coarsely dressed in gray and white. Deborah (for Haley had +let her in) took notice of her. She watched them all--sitting on the +end of the pallet, holding his head in her arms with the ferocity of a +watch-dog, if any of them touched the body. There was no meekness, no +sorrow, in her face; the stuff out of which murderers are made, instead. +All the time Haley and the woman were laying straight the limbs and +cleaning the cell, Deborah sat still, keenly watching the Quaker's face. +Of all the crowd there that day, this woman alone had not spoken to +her,--only once or twice had put some cordial to her lips. After they +all were gone, the woman, in the same still, gentle way, brought a vase +of wood-leaves and berries, and placed it by the pallet, then opened the +narrow window. The fresh air blew in, and swept the woody fragrance over +the dead face, Deborah looked up with a quick wonder. + +“Did hur know my boy wud like it? Did hur know Hugh?” + +“I know Hugh now.” + +The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the dead, worn +face. There was a heavy shadow in the quiet eyes. + +“Did hur know where they'll bury Hugh?” said Deborah in a shrill tone, +catching her arm. + +This had been the question hanging on her lips all day. + +“In t' town-yard? Under t' mud and ash? T' lad'll smother, woman! He wur +born in t' lane moor, where t' air is frick and strong. Take hur out, +for God's sake, take hur out where t' air blows!” + +The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She put her strong arm +around Deborah and led her to the window. + +“Thee sees the hills, friend, over the river? Thee sees how the +light lies warm there, and the winds of God blow all the day? I live +there,--where the blue smoke is, by the trees. Look at me,” She turned +Deborah's face to her own, clear and earnest, “Thee will believe me? I +will take Hugh and bury him there to-morrow.” + +Deborah did not doubt her. As the evening wore on, she leaned against +the iron bars, looking at the hills that rose far off, through the thick +sodden clouds, like a bright, unattainable calm. As she looked, a shadow +of their solemn repose fell on her face; its fierce discontent faded +into a pitiful, humble quiet. Slow, solemn tears gathered in her eyes: +the poor weak eyes turned so hopelessly to the place where Hugh was to +rest, the grave heights looking higher and brighter and more solemn than +ever before. The Quaker watched her keenly. She came to her at last, and +touched her arm. + +“When thee comes back,” she said, in a low, sorrowful tone, like one +who speaks from a strong heart deeply moved with remorse or pity, “thee +shall begin thy life again,--there on the hills. I came too late; but +not for thee,--by God's help, it may be.” + +Not too late. Three years after, the Quaker began her work. I end my +story here. At evening-time it was light. There is no need to tire +you with the long years of sunshine, and fresh air, and slow, patient +Christ-love, needed to make healthy and hopeful this impure body and +soul. There is a homely pine house, on one of these hills, whose windows +overlook broad, wooded slopes and clover-crimsoned meadows,--niched into +the very place where the light is warmest, the air freest. It is the +Friends' meeting-house. Once a week they sit there, in their grave, +earnest way, waiting for the Spirit of Love to speak, opening their +simple hearts to receive His words. There is a woman, old, deformed, who +takes a humble place among them: waiting like them: in her gray dress, +her worn face, pure and meek, turned now and then to the sky. A woman +much loved by these silent, restful people; more silent than they, more +humble, more loving. Waiting: with her eyes turned to hills higher +and purer than these on which she lives, dim and far off now, but to be +reached some day. There may be in her heart some latent hope to meet +there the love denied her here,--that she shall find him whom she lost, +and that then she will not be all-unworthy. Who blames her? Something +is lost in the passage of every soul from one eternity to the +other,--something pure and beautiful, which might have been and was not: +a hope, a talent, a love, over which the soul mourns, like Esau deprived +of his birthright. What blame to the meek Quaker, if she took her lost +hope to make the hills of heaven more fair? + +Nothing remains to tell that the poor Welsh puddler once lived, but this +figure of the mill-woman cut in korl. I have it here in a corner of my +library. I keep it hid behind a curtain,--it is such a rough, ungainly +thing. Yet there are about it touches, grand sweeps of outline, that +show a master's hand. Sometimes,--to-night, for instance,--the +curtain is accidentally drawn back, and I see a bare arm stretched out +imploringly in the darkness, and an eager, wolfish face watching mine: a +wan, woful face, through which the spirit of the dead korl-cutter looks +out, with its thwarted life, its mighty hunger, its unfinished work. Its +pale, vague lips seem to tremble with a terrible question. “Is this the +End?” they say,--“nothing beyond? no more?” Why, you tell me you have +seen that look in the eyes of dumb brutes,--horses dying under the lash. +I know. + +The deep of the night is passing while I write. The gas-light wakens +from the shadows here and there the objects which lie scattered through +the room: only faintly, though; for they belong to the open sunlight. As +I glance at them, they each recall some task or pleasure of the coming +day. A half-moulded child's head; Aphrodite; a bough of forest-leaves; +music; work; homely fragments, in which lie the secrets of all eternal +truth and beauty. Prophetic all! Only this dumb, woful face seems to +belong to and end with the night. I turn to look at it. Has the power +of its desperate need commanded the darkness away? While the room is yet +steeped in heavy shadow, a cool, gray light suddenly touches its head +like a blessing hand, and its groping arm points through the broken +cloud to the far East, where, in the flickering, nebulous crimson, God +has set the promise of the Dawn. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Life in the Iron-Mills, by Rebecca Harding Davis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS *** + +***** This file should be named 876-0.txt or 876-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/7/876/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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