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diff --git a/old/liron10.txt b/old/liron10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f130861 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/liron10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1989 @@ +*The Project Gutenberg Etext of Life in the Iron-Mills by Davis* +#3 in our series by Rebecca Harding Davis + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon + University" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Carnegie-Mellon University". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +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' inprisonment +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, resfful 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 The Project Gutenberg Etext of Life in the Iron-Mills by Davis* + diff --git a/old/liron10.zip b/old/liron10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3a051b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/liron10.zip |