CHAPTER THE FIFTH.16ELLEN CHADWICK.
THE song of the human throstle was heard no more floating across the batting-frame out of the window of its cage, in the dreary yard on the banks of the Irk. The swish of the wands might be heard when other sounds were low, but no more snatches of melody flowed in between.
Kind-hearted Mrs. Chadwick had not been content to leave poor Bessy at the breeches-maker’s when her swoon was over; but, seeing that the girl continued in a dazed kind of stupor, sent to the adjoining “Sun Inn” for cold brandy-and-water, to stimulate the dormant mind. Bess drank, half unconsciously, and Mrs. Chadwick, leaving her little daughter Ellen to amuse astonished Jabez, waited patiently until the young woman could collect her ideas, and not only tell where she lived, but prepare to walk home.
By that time the road was tolerably clear. Mrs. Chadwick thanked the breeches maker, and bidding Miss Ellen march in advance with little Jabez, herself helped Bessy Clegg homeward.
She never asked herself why or wherefore the girl had fainted, or whose the child she carried in her arms. She merely saw a modest-looking young woman stricken down by illness or distress, and put out a Christian hand to help her.
It was past Simon’s dinner-hour, and they found him on the look-out for the absentees. He was more bewildered than Bess when he saw her brought home pale and trembling by a stranger, whose dress and manner bespoke her superior station. Mrs. Chadwick explained, seeing that Bess was incapable.
“The poor girl fainted almost opposite to the College gate, as she watched Earl Wilton’s regiment march past.She recovered so slowly, I was afraid to let her come through the streets unprotected, especially as she had so young a child in her charge.”
Simon thanked her, as well he might. Benevolence will relieve distress with money, or passing words of sympathy, but it is not often silken skirt and satin bonnet walk through a crowded thoroughfare in close conjunction with bonnetless cotton and linsey.
Yet Simon was utterly at a loss to account for her swoon. He could only conjecture that she had missed her sweetheart from the corps, and that the inquiring volunteer had been a comrade sent to announce Tom Hulme’s death. Observing how much he was confounded, the good lady thought it best to retire, and leave them to themselves.
“Come, Ellen, it is time we went home.”
But Ellen, seated on a low stool in the corner, had her lap full of broken toys, which had found their way hither from the Clough nursery, and which Jabez displayed to all comers.
“My daughter appears wonderfully attracted to your little grandson.”
“He’s noa gran’son o’ moine, Misses, though aw think aw love th’ little lad as much as if he did belung to us. Aw just picked him eawt o’ th’ wayter, i’ th’ greet flood abeawt two year an’ hauve back. Aw dunnot know reetly who th’ young un belungs to.”
“And you have kept him ever since—through all the trying time of scarcity?”
“Yoi; aw could do no other, an’ a little chap like Jabez couldna ate much.”
“It does you credit,” said the lady.
“Mebbe. Aw dunnot know. Aw dunnot see mich credit i’ doin’ one’s clear duty. But aw think theer’d ha’ bindiscredit an’ aw hadna done it.”
“I wish everyone shared your sentiments,” replied she.
By this time the little girl had relinquished the toys, kissed the little boy patronisingly, and was by her mother’s side, ready to depart. A word of sympathy and encouragement from Mrs. Chadwick, and father and daughter were left alone with their new sorrow.
Sorely puzzled was Simon to account for Tom Hulme’s strange conduct. He could only come to the conclusion that he had picked up a fresh sweetheart in Ireland, and was ashamed to show his face.
“An’ if so, lass, yo’re best off without him,” said he.
The stern, troubled look on the young volunteer’s face, which Bess had seen and her father had not, he could not understand, and therefore could not credit.
One day the girl said, as if struck by a sudden thought—
“Feyther, aw saw Tum look hard at Jabez. Dun yo’ think as heaw he fancied aw wur wed?”
“He moight, lass, he moight,” said he, knocking the ashes out of his pipe; “but dunnot thee fret; aw’ll look Tum up, and set it o’ reet, if that’s o’.”
But there was no setting it right, for by that time Tom had left the corps and the town, and thenceforth Bessy’s musical pipe was out of tune, and stopped utterly. She worked, it is true, but she had no heart in her work; and though before her father she kept up a show of cheerfulness, in his absence she had shed many and bitter tears.
Smiles and tears are among a child’s earliest perceptions and experiences. Of the mother’s smile in its full sense Jabez knew nothing. With all her winning ways, Bess could never supply that want, if want it could be where it was never missed, having so good a substitute. But of the change which came over her when she knew that Tom was indeed lost to her, even the three years child could be sensible. He had been early taught to show a brave front when he hurt himself, and the starting tears would subdue to a whimper; but, for all that, tears to him meant pain or disappointment, and as they fell and wetted the (not always clean) little cheek laid lovingly against hers, a tender chord was struck; he would press his small arm tighter round her neck, and with a sympathetic “Don’t ky, Beth!” nestle closer, and try to kiss away the drops, which only fell the faster.
Low-spirited nurses do not make lively children, and Jabez, after a stout tussle with the whooping-cough, began to droop as much as Bess; so clear-eyed Simon instituted a series of Sunday rambles for the three, in search of plants and posies, to brighten their dull home, and of bloom to brighten the fading cheeks. Sometimes Matt Cooper, with one or two of his youngsters, would join them, but not often; Sal was so jealous of his friendship with the Cleggs, and the pleasant day was so certain to be marred by an unpleasant reception in the evening at home.
These Summer walks seldom extended beyond Collyhurst Clough and quarries, or Smedley Vale, or through the fields toChetham Hill, stopping at the “Cow and Calf” to refresh, and rest the little ones, before they came back laden with wild flowers down Red Bank and over Scotland Bridge, to their respective “yards” in Long Millgate.
At first, whenever they took the lower road through Angel Meadow, they did their best to ferret out the parentage and connections of Jabez, hoping by their inquiries even to keep alive the memory of his marvellous deliverance, so that in case the missing father should return, there might be a mutual restoration.
These Sunday excursions did not drop with the sere autumnal leaves. A crisp clear day called them forth surely as sunshine had done, Jabez mounting pick-a-back on the shoulders of Simon or Matt when his little feet could no longer keep up their trot beside the bigger Cooper boys. Frames were invigorated, cheerfulness came back to face and home, and Simon, who had a deep-seated love of Nature in his soul, finding her so good a physician, kept up the acquaintance through rounding seasons and years. And from Nature he drew lessons which he dropped as seed into the boy’s heart, as unconscious of the great work he was doing as was Jabez himself.
The boy throve and grew hardy. Companionship with older and rougher lads, sturdy fellows with wills of their own, made him sturdy too; a lad who would take a blow and give one on occasion; who would run a race and lose, and a second, and third, until he could win. But Bessy’s gentle training was something very different from Sal’s, and Jabez grew up tender as well as strong and bold.
A persecuted kitten had taken refuge under Bessy’s batting-frame in the foundling’s go-cart days, and in care for that kitten, and for a wounded brown linnet brought home one Sunday, he learned humanity. Matthew’s lads were given to bird-nesting, and Matt himself saw no harm in it; but when that young linnet’s wing was broken in a scuffle for the nest stolen from a clump of brushwood, Simon read the robbers such a homily they had never heard in their young lives, and as a corollary he took the bird home to be fed and nursed by Bess and Jabez till it could fly, an event which never came about.
In hot weather the lads pulled off clogs and stockings (there were no trousers to turn up—they wore breeches), and waded into pools and brooks, and Jabez would be no whit behind.On one of these occasions, either the current was too strong for the venturesome child, or the gravel slipped from under his feet, or his companions pushed him—no matter which,—but in he went, and, but for the presence of Simon, would have been drowned. Simon had been born on the river-banks, and could swim like a fish. At once he resolved that Jabez should learn to do the same, and begin at once.
“Yo’ see, Bess, if aw hadna bin theer he’d a bin dreawnded, sure as wayter’s wet, an’ th’ third toime pays off fur o’; so he mun larn to tak’ care on himsel’ th’ next toime he marlocks gambols among th’ Jack-sharps.”
Jabez was not six years old when Simon Clegg gave him and the young Coopers their first lesson in swimming, in a delightful and sequestered part of Smedley Vale, where the Irk was clear and bright. He had shown them, nearer home, how a frog used its limbs, and then, after a few preliminary evolutions, to show how a man used his, took the lad on his back, and, after swimming with him awhile shook him off into the water to flounder about for himself.
Bess was often left at home on Sundays after that; and Jabez was not merely the better for his bath, but by the time he was eight years old was a fearless swimmer.
Yet, although these country rambles had become an institution, Simon Clegg never neglected his Sabbath duties. Sunday morning was sure to see him, clean-shaven, in his best suit, with Jabez by the hand, and mild-eyed Bess beside, on the free seats of the Old Church, under the eye of parsons and churchwardens; and Jabez if he could understand little of the service, could gather in a sense of the beautiful from the grand old architecture, from the swell of the solemn organ, the harmonious voices of the choristers—of the Blue-coat boys in the Chetham-gallery over the churchwarden’s pew, and of the Green-coat children farther on. Then the silver mace carried before the parson was a thing to wonder at, and fill him with awe; and no one could tell how the clerical robes, and choristers’ surplices, transfigured common mortals in his admiring eyes.
But those years of Jabez Clegg’s young life had been full of history for Manchester and Europe. The town had grown as well as the foundling. Invention had been busy. Volunteer regiments had been one by one disbanded, a daily newspaper was started, and peaceful arts nourished. Then, ere another year expired, Napoleondeclared the British Isles in a state of blockade; British subjects on French soil, whether civil or military, to be prisoners of war: British commodities lawful spoil; and so War—red-handed War—broke loose once more. Again Manchester rose up in arms to defend country and commerce. A “Loyalty Fund” of £22,000 was raised for the support of Government. No fewer than nine separate volunteer corps sprang from the ashes of the old ones, and the town was one huge garrison. The commander of one regiment—the Loyal Masonic Rifle Volunteer Corps,—Colonel Hanson—a remarkable man in many ways,—was distinguished by a command from George III. to appear at Court in full regimentals, and with his hat on.
Messrs. Pickford offered to place at the disposal of Government four hundred horses, fifty waggons, and twenty-eight boats. Loyal townsmen, with more money than courage of their own, sought to stimulate that of others by sending gold medals flying amongst the officers of the volunteer corps. “The British Volunteer” came from the press of Harrop in the Market Place, and once more the music of drum and trumpet was in the ascendant.
To crown the whole, Manchester, which had never been called upon to entertain British Royalty since Henry VII. looked in upon the infant town, was visited in 1804 by Prince William, Duke of Gloucester, commander of the North-west District, and his son, to review this Lancashire volunteer army; and the whole town was consequently in a ferment of excitement. Nothing was thought of, or talked of, but the visit of the Duke and Prince, and the coming review, the more so as reports differed respecting the appointed site.
Market Street, Manchester, which a well-known writer has commemorated as one of the “Streets of the World,” was then Market Street Lane, a confused medley of shops and private houses, varying from the low and ricketty black-and-white tenement of no pretensions, to the fine mansion with an imposing frontage, and ample space before. But the thoroughfare was in places so very narrow that two vehicles could not pass, and pedestrians on the footpath were compelled to take refuge in doorways from the muddy wheels which threatened damage to dainty garments; and the whole was ill-paved and worse lighted.
At the corner where it opens a vent for the warehouse traffic of High Street,thenstood a handsome new hotel, the BridgewaterArms, in front of which a semi-circular area was railed off with wooden posts and suspended chains. Within this area, on the bright morning of April the 12th, two sentinels were placed, who, marching backwards and forwards, crossed and re-crossed each other in front of the hotel door; tokens that the Royal Duke and his suite had taken up their quarters within.
Beyond the semi-circle of chained posts, mounted horsemen kept back the concourse of spectators which pressed closely on the horses’ heels. Among the crowd was Simon Clegg, with Jabez mounted on his shoulders, albeit he was a somewhat heavy load. Simon was a man of peace, but he was a staunch believer in Royalty, and that, quite as much as the spectacle, had drawn him thither.
It was a mild and cheery April morn; the windows of the upper room in which sat the Prince, the centre of a brilliant circle, were open, and the loyal multitude feasted their unaccustomed eyes with the sight. As Jabez looked on in a child’s ravishment, a little dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, some six or seven years old, turned sharply round the narrow street by the side of the hotel on the flags where there was no chain to bar; passing unquestioned the sentinel on guard, who, seeing only a well-dressed solitary child in white muslin, with a sash and hat-ribbons of pink satin, concluded that she belonged to the hotel. Once there, she asked fearlessly—
“Where is Prince William? I want Prince William!”
Then the sentinel began to question; but the little maid had but one reply—
“I want Prince William!”
The soldier would have turned her back: but the disputation had attracted attention in the room above.
An officer’s head was thrust out.
“What’s the matter?” asked he.
“I want to see the Prince. I want to know——”
“Bid the little lady come up hither.”
And the little lady went up, all unconscious of state etiquette or ceremonial.
An officer in rich uniform, with jewels on his breast, took her on his knee, and asked what she wanted with Prince William.
“Oh, mamma and my aunts are wanting ever so to know if the review is going to be on Camp Field or on Sale Moor; and Aunt Ellen says it’s to be in one place, and mamma thinks it’sthe other; and so, as I was dressed first, I just slipped out at the back door, and ran here to ask Prince William himself, for I thoughthewould be sure to know.”
The gentleman laughed heartily, and the others followed suit.
“And who is your mamma, my dear?”
“My mamma is Mrs. Chadwick, and I’m Ellen Chadwick; and we live in Oldham Street.”
“Oh, indeed! And why are the ladies so anxious to know where the Prince holds the review?” asked the officer on whose knee she sat.
“Ah—that’s just it. If he reviews at Sale Moor, he will go past our house; and then we shall see all the soldiers from our own windows. Won’t it be fine?”
Another gentleman asked what the ladies were doing when she left; and I’m afraid Ellen made more revelations anent their toilettes than were strictly necessary, for the laughter was prolonged.
She had not, however, lost sight of her self-imposed mission. Struggling from her seat, she said—
“Oh, please do tell me where is Prince William; I must go home, and I do so want to know.”
“Tell your mamma, Miss Ellen,” said he, smiling, “that the Prince will review at Sale Moor; and take this, my dear, for yourself,” putting a shilling (shillings at that time were perfectly plain from over-long use) in her hand.
“Oh, thank you! But are you sure—quite sure it is Sale Moor?”
“Quite sure.”
The little damsel set off, as much elated with her news as with her shilling. As she ran briskly down the broad steps, and beyond the barrier, she came in contact with Simon, who made way for her exit; and, as she looked up smiling to thank him, her glance rested for a moment on the boy he carried; but no spark of recognition flashed into the eyes of either, and no one in all that crowd saw any connection between that dainty white-frocked, pink-slippered, pink-sashed miss, and the rough lad in the patched suit (a Clough’s cast-off) and wooden clogs.