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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 + +Release Date: July 27, 2008 [EBook #876] +Last Updated: March 4, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS *** + + + +Produced by an Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + LIFE IN THE IRON-MILLS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Rebecca Harding Davis + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Is this the end? + O Life, as futile, then, as frail! + What hope of answer or redress?” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Dah's a ball to Miss Potts' to-night. Ye'd best come.” + </p> + <p> + “Inteet, Deb, if hur'll come, hur'll hef fun,” said a shrill Welsh voice + in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + Two or three dirty hands were thrust out to catch the gown of the woman, + who was groping for the latch of the door. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “No? Where's Kit Small, then?” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Janey!” she called, lifting the candle and peering into the darkness. + “Janey, are you there?” + </p> + <p> + A heap of ragged coats was heaved up, and the face of a young girl + emerged, staring sleepily at the woman. + </p> + <p> + “Deborah,” she said, at last, “I'm here the night.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, child. Hur's welcome,” she said, quietly eating on. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I was alone,” she said, timidly. + </p> + <p> + “Where's the father?” asked Deborah, holding out a potato, which the girl + greedily seized. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Hugh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + A vexed frown crossed her face. The girl saw it, and added quickly,— + </p> + <p> + “I have not seen Hugh the day, Deb. The old man says his watch lasts till + the mornin'.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Lay ye down, Janey dear,” she said, gently, covering her with the old + rags. “Hur can eat the potatoes, if hur's hungry. + </p> + <p> + “Where are ye goin', Deb? The rain's sharp.” + </p> + <p> + “To the mill, with Hugh's supper.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him bide till th' morn. Sit ye down.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,”—sharply pushing her off. “The boy'll starve.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hout, woman! ye look like a drowned cat. Come near to the fire,”—said + one of the men, approaching to scrape away the ashes. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. Wolfe had forgotten her. He turned, hearing the man, + and came closer. + </p> + <p> + “I did no' think; gi' me my supper, woman.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is't good, Hugh? T' ale was a bit sour, I feared.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Kirby laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Yonder is Farinata himself in the burning tomb,”—pointing to + some figure in the shimmering shadows. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Young Kirby looked curiously around, as if seeing the faces of his hands + for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “They're bad enough, that's true. A desperate set, I fancy. Eh, Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + 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— + </p> + <p> + “I believe that is a pretty fair estimate, Captain.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Twelve hundred hands?” said the stranger, the young man who had first + spoken. “Do you control their votes, Kirby?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + The others rose, buttoning their overcoats, and lighting cigars. + </p> + <p> + “Raining, still,” said Doctor May, “and hard. Where did we leave the + coach, Mitchell?” + </p> + <p> + “At the other side of the works.—Kirby, what's that?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Stop! Make that fire burn there!” cried Kirby, stopping short. + </p> + <p> + The flame burst out, flashing the gaunt figure into bold relief. + </p> + <p> + Mitchell drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “I thought it was alive,” he said, going up curiously. + </p> + <p> + The others followed. + </p> + <p> + “Not marble, eh?” asked Kirby, touching it. + </p> + <p> + One of the lower overseers stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Korl, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Who did it?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't say. Some of the hands; chipped it out in off-hours.” + </p> + <p> + “Chipped to some purpose, I should say. What a flesh-tint the stuff has! + Do you see, Mitchell?” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “They have ample facilities for studying anatomy,” sneered Kirby, glancing + at the half-naked figures. + </p> + <p> + “Look,” continued the Doctor, “at this bony wrist, and the strained sinews + of the instep! A working-woman,—the very type of her class.” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid!” muttered Mitchell. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” demanded May, “What does the fellow intend by the figure? I cannot + catch the meaning.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask him,” said the other, dryly, “There he stands,”—pointing to + Wolfe, who stood with a group of men, leaning on his ash-rake. + </p> + <p> + The Doctor beckoned him with the affable smile which kind-hearted men put + on, when talking to these people. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “She be hungry.” + </p> + <p> + Wolfe's eyes answered Mitchell, not the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Not hungry for meat,” the furnace-tender said at last. + </p> + <p> + “What then? Whiskey?” jeered Kirby, with a coarse laugh. + </p> + <p> + Wolfe was silent a moment, thinking. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The young man laughed again. Mitchell flashed a look of disgust somewhere,—not + at Wolfe. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + They looked a moment; then May turned to the mill-owner:— + </p> + <p> + “Have you many such hands as this? What are you going to do with them? + Keep them at puddling iron?” + </p> + <p> + Kirby shrugged his shoulders. Mitchell's look had irritated him. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “You think you could govern the world better?” laughed the Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think at all.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true philosophy. Drift with the stream, because you cannot dive + deep enough to find bottom, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + The Doctor sighed,—a good honest sigh, from the depths of his + stomach. + </p> + <p> + “God help us! Who is responsible?” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” said Mitchell's cynical voice, “look at her! How hungry she + is!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!'” + </p> + <p> + Kirby flushed angrily. + </p> + <p> + “You quote Scripture freely.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “I think a mocking devil possesses you to-night,” rejoined the Doctor, + seriously. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Make yourself what you will. It is your right. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” quietly. “Will you help me?” + </p> + <p> + Mitchell laughed again. The Doctor turned now, in a passion,— + </p> + <p> + “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”— + </p> + <p> + “The glory of God, and the glory of John May.” + </p> + <p> + May did not speak for a moment; then, controlled, he said,— + </p> + <p> + “Why should one be raised, when myriads are left?—I have not the + money, boy,” to Wolfe, shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Money?” He said it over slowly, as one repeats the guessed answer to a + riddle, doubtfully. “That is it? Money?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you send the coach-driver to this side of the mills?” asked Kirby, + turning to Wolfe. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” added Mitchell, giving a corollary to his answer, “it would be + of no use. I am not one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not mean”—said May, facing him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “'T be late, Hugh. Wunnot hur come?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “God forgi' me, woman! Things go harder Wi' you nor me. It's a worse + share.” + </p> + <p> + He got up and helped her to rise; and they went doggedly down the muddy + street, side by side. + </p> + <p> + “It's all wrong,” he muttered, slowly,—“all wrong! I dunnot + understan'. But it'll end some day.” + </p> + <p> + “Come home, Hugh!” she said, coaxingly; for he had stopped, looking around + bewildered. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh!” she said, softly. + </p> + <p> + He did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh, did hur hear what the man said,—him with the clear voice? Did + hur hear? Money, money,—that it wud do all?” + </p> + <p> + He pushed her away,—gently, but he was worn out; her rasping tone + fretted him. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh, it is true! Money ull do it! Oh, Hugh, boy, listen till me! He said + it true! It is money!” + </p> + <p> + “I know. Go back! I do not want you here.” + </p> + <p> + “Hugh, it is t' last time. I'll never worrit hur again.” + </p> + <p> + There were tears in her voice now, but she choked them back: + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean money.” + </p> + <p> + Her whisper shrilled through his brain. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + He thought the woman mad, tried to check her, but she went on, fierce in + her eager haste. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Mad? Yes! Are many of us mad in this way? + </p> + <p> + “Poor Deb! poor Deb!” he said, soothingly. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She thrust it into his hand, and then, her errand done, began to gather + chips together to make a fire, choking down hysteric sobs. + </p> + <p> + “Has it come to this?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh, don't be angry wud me! It's only poor Deb,—hur knows?” + </p> + <p> + He took the long skinny fingers kindly in his. + </p> + <p> + “Angry? God help me, no! Let me sleep. I am tired.” + </p> + <p> + He threw himself heavily down on the wooden bench, stunned with pain and + weariness. She brought some old rags to cover him. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I must gif it to him,” he said, reading her face. + </p> + <p> + “Hur knows,” she said with a bitter sigh of disappointment. “But it is hur + right to keep it.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + His wife said something about the ingratitude of that kind of people, and + then they began to talk of something else. + </p> + <p> + Nineteen years! How easy that was to read! What a simple word for Judge + Day to utter! Nineteen years! Half a lifetime! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Tryin' to get out, old boy?” laughed Haley. “Them irons will need a + crow-bar beside your tin, before you can open 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Wolfe laughed, too, in a senseless way. + </p> + <p> + “I think I'll get out,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I believe his brain's touched,” said Haley, when he came out. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Blood?” she said, looking at some spots on his coat with a shudder. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The confession, even In this wretch, came with the woman's blush through + the sharp cry. + </p> + <p> + He did not seem to hear her,—scraping away diligently at the bars + with the bit of tin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh!” she cried, in a desperate whisper,—“oh, boy, not that! for + God's sake, not that!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The door grated, as Haley opened it. + </p> + <p> + “Come, my woman! Must lock up for t' night. Come, stir yerself!” + </p> + <p> + She went up and took Hugh's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Deb,” he said, carelessly. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hur'll never see Deb again!” she ventured, her lips growing colder and + more bloodless. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “No, never again,” he said, trying to be cheerful. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + “Come, you!” called Haley, impatiently. + </p> + <p> + She did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Hugh!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + It was to be her last word. What was it? + </p> + <p> + “Hugh, boy, not THAT!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “It is best, Deb. I cannot bear to be hurted any more. + </p> + <p> + “Hur knows,” she said, humbly. + </p> + <p> + “Tell my father good-bye; and—and kiss little Janey.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, saying nothing, looked in his face again, and went out of the + door. As she went, she staggered. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Joe!” he called, out of the grating. “Good-bye, Joe!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Joe!” he called, sorrowfully enough. + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet!” said one of the jailers, passing the door, striking on it with + his club. + </p> + <p> + Oh, that was the last, was it? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Hur knows best,” she muttered at last, fiercely clutching the boards + where she lay. + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Did hur know my boy wud like it? Did hur know Hugh?” + </p> + <p> + “I know Hugh now.” + </p> + <p> + The white fingers passed in a slow, pitiful way over the dead, worn face. + There was a heavy shadow in the quiet eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Did hur know where they'll bury Hugh?” said Deborah in a shrill tone, + catching her arm. + </p> + <p> + This had been the question hanging on her lips all day. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + The Quaker hesitated, but only for a moment. She put her strong arm around + Deborah and led her to the window. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +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-h.htm or 876-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/7/876/ + +Produced by an Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + + +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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