'Then I'll never smoke no more i' th' house!' he replied,
tenderly. 'But why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish
wench?' She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret
heard her: 'I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can get out o' either
pipe or drink afore he's done.' Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.
Bessy said passionately, 'Now am not I a fool,--am I not, Miss?--there, I knew I ought for
to keep father at home, and away fro' the folk that are always
ready for to tempt a man, in time o' strike, to go drink,--and
there my tongue must needs quarrel with this pipe o' his'n,--and
he'll go off, I know he will,--as often as he wants to smoke--and
nobody knows where it'll end. I wish I'd letten myself be choked
first.' 'But does your father drink?' asked Margaret.
'No--not to say drink,' replied she, still in the same wild
excited tone. 'But what win ye have? There are days wi' you, as
wi' other folk, I suppose, when yo' get up and go through th'
hours, just longing for a bit of a change--a bit of a fillip, as
it were. I know I ha' gone and bought a four-pounder out o'
another baker's shop to common on such days, just because I
sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi' the same sight
in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same taste i'
my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter)
in my head, day after day, for ever. I've longed for to be a man
to go spreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in
search o' work. And father--all men--have it stronger in 'em than
me to get tired o' sameness and work for ever. And what is 'em to
do? It's little blame to them if they do go into th' gin-shop for
to make their blood flow quicker, and more lively, and see things
they never see at no other time--pictures, and looking-glass, and
such like. But father never was a drunkard, though maybe, he's
got worse for drink, now and then. Only yo' see,' and now her
voice took a mournful, pleading tone, 'at times o' strike
there's much to knock a man down, for all they start so
hopefully; and where's the comfort to come fro'? He'll get angry
and mad--they all do--and then they get tired out wi' being angry
and mad, and maybe ha' done things in their passion they'd be
glad to forget. Bless yo'r sweet pitiful face! but yo' dunnot
know what a strike is yet.' 'Come, Bessy,' said Margaret, 'I won't say you're exaggerating,
because I don't know enough about it: but, perhaps, as you're not
well, you're only looking on one side, and there is another and a
brighter to be looked to.' 'It's all well enough for yo' to say so, who have lived in
pleasant green places all your life long, and never known want or
care, or wickedness either, for that matter.' 'Take care,' said Margaret, her cheek flushing, and her eye
lightening, 'how you judge, Bessy. I shall go home to my mother,
who is so ill--so ill, Bessy, that there's no outlet but death
for her out of the prison of her great suffering; and yet I must
speak cheerfully to my father, who has no notion of her real
state, and to whom the knowledge must come gradually. The only
person--the only one who could sympathise with me and help
me--whose presence could comfort my mother more than any other
earthly thing--is falsely accused--would run the risk of death if
he came to see his dying mother. This I tell you--only you,
Bessy. You must not mention it. No other person in Milton--hardly
any other person in England knows. Have I not care? Do I not know
anxiety, though I go about well-dressed, and have food enough?
Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our lots are well portioned out by
Him, although none but He knows the bitterness of our souls.' 'I ask your pardon,' replied Bessy, humbly. 'Sometimes, when I've
thought o' my life, and the little pleasure I've had in it, I've
believed that, maybe, I was one of those doomed to die by the
falling of a star from heaven; "And the name of the star is
called Wormwood;' and the third part of the waters became
wormwood; and men died of the waters, because they were made
bitter." One can bear pain and sorrow better if one thinks it has
been prophesied long before for one: somehow, then it seems as if
my pain was needed for the fulfilment; otherways it seems all
sent for nothing.' 'Nay, Bessy--think!' said Margaret. 'God does not willingly
afflict. Don't dwell so much on the prophecies, but read the
clearer parts of the Bible.' 'I dare say it would be wiser; but where would I hear such grand
words of promise--hear tell o' anything so far different fro'
this dreary world, and this town above a', as in Revelations?
Many's the time I've repeated the verses in the seventh chapter
to myself, just for the sound. It's as good as an organ, and as
different from every day, too. No, I cannot give up Revelations.
It gives me more comfort than any other book i' the Bible.' 'Let me come and read you some of my favourite chapters.' 'Ay,' said she, greedily, 'come. Father will maybe hear yo'. He's
deaved wi' my talking; he says it's all nought to do with the
things o' to-day, and that's his business.' 'Where is your sister?' 'Gone fustian-cutting. I were loth to let her go; but somehow we
must live; and th' Union can't afford us much.' 'Now I must go. You have done me good, Bessy.' 'I done you good!' 'Yes. I came here very sad, and rather too apt to think my own
cause for grief was the only one in the world. And now I hear how
you have had to bear for years, and that makes me stronger.' 'Bless yo'! I thought a' the good-doing was on the side of gentle
folk. I shall get proud if I think I can do good to yo'.' 'You won't do it if you think about it. But you'll only puzzle
yourself if you do, that's one comfort.' 'Yo're not like no one I ever seed. I dunno what to make of yo'.' 'Nor I of myself. Good-bye!' Bessy stilled her rocking to gaze after her.