and level, and making a deep shade of rest even at noonday. And yet, though every leaf may seem still, there is a continual rushing sound of movement all around — not close at hand. Then sometimes the turf is as soft and fine as velvet; and sometimes quite lush with the perpetual moisture of a little, hidden, tinkling brook near at hand. And then in other parts there are billowy ferns — whole stretches of fern; some in the green shadow; some with long streaks of golden sunlight lying on them — just like the sea.’
‘I have never seen the sea,’ murmured Bessy. ‘But go on.’
‘Then, here and there, there are wide commons, high up as if above the very tops of the trees —’
‘I’m glad of that. I felt smothered like down below. When I have gone for an out, I’ve always wanted to get high up and see far away, and take a deep breath o’ fulness in that air. I get smothered enough in Milton, and I think the sound yo’ speak of among the trees, going on for ever and ever, would send me dazed; it’s that made my head ache so in the mill. Now on these commons I reckon there is but little noise?’
‘No,’ said Margaret; ‘nothing but here and there a lark high in the air. Sometimes I used to hear a farmer speaking sharp and loud to his servants; but it was so far away that it only reminded me pleasantly that other people were hard at work in some distant place, while I just sat on the heather and did nothing.’
‘I used to think once that if I could have a day of doing nothing, to rest me — a day in some quiet place like that yo’ speak on — it would maybe set me up. But now I’ve had many days o’ idleness, and I’m just as weary o’ them as I was o’ my work. Sometimes I’m so tired out I think I cannot enjoy heaven without a piece of rest first. I’m rather afeard o’ going straight there without getting a good sleep in the grave to set me up.’
‘Don’t be afraid, Bessy,’ said Margaret, laying her hand on the girl’s; ‘God can give you more perfect rest than even idleness on earth, or the dead sleep of the grave can do.’
Bessy moved uneasily; then she said:
‘I wish father would not speak as he does. He means well, as I telled yo’ yesterday, and tell yo’ again and again. But yo’ see, though I don’t believe him a bit by day, yet by night — when I’m in a fever, half-asleep and half-awake — it comes back upon me — oh! so bad! And I think, if this should be th’ end of all, and if all I’ve been born for is just to work my heart and my life away, and to sicken i’ this dree place, wi’ them mill-noises in my ears for ever, until I could scream out for them to stop, and let me have a little piece o’ quiet — and wi’ the fluff filling my lungs, until I thirst to death for one long deep breath o’ the clear air yo’ speak on — and my mother gone, and I never able to tell her again how I loved her, and o’ all my troubles — I think if this life is th’ end, and that there’s no God to wipe away all tears from all eyes — yo’ wench, yo’!’ said she, sitting up, and clutching violently, almost fiercely, at Margaret’s hand, ‘I could go mad, and kill yo’, I could.’ She fell back completely worn out with her passion. Margaret knelt down by her.
‘Bessy — we have a Father in Heaven.’
‘I know it! I know it,’ moaned she, turning her head uneasily from side to side.
‘I’m very wicked. I’ve spoken very wickedly. Oh! don’t be frightened by me and never come again. I would not harm a hair of your head. And,’ opening her eyes, and looking earnestly at Margaret, ‘I believe, perhaps, more than yo’ do o’ what’s to come. I read the book o’ Revelations until I know it off by heart, and I never doubt when I’m waking, and in my senses, of all the glory I’m to come to.’
‘Don’t let us talk of what fancies come into your head when you are feverish. I would rather hear something about what you used to do when you were well.’
‘I think I was well when mother died, but I have never been rightly strong sin’ somewhere about that time. I began to work in a carding-room soon after, and the fluff got into my lungs and poisoned me.’
‘Fluff?’ said Margaret, inquiringly.
‘Fluff,’ repeated Bessy. ‘Little bits, as fly off fro’ the cotton, when they’re carding it, and fill the air till it looks all fine white dust. They say it winds round the lungs, and tightens them up. Anyhow, there’s many a one as works in a carding-room, that falls into a waste, coughing and spitting blood, because they’re just poisoned by the fluff.’
‘But can’t it be helped?’ asked Margaret.
‘I dunno. Some folk have a great wheel at one end o’ their carding-rooms to make a draught, and carry off th’ dust; but that wheel costs a deal o’ money — five or six hundred pound, maybe, and brings in no profit; so it’s but a few of th’ masters as will put ’em up; and I’ve heard tell o’ men who didn’t like working places where there was a wheel, because they said as how it mad ’em hungry, at after they’d been long used to swallowing fluff, tone go without it, and that their wage ought to be raised if they were to work in such places. So between masters and men th’ wheels fall through. I know I wish there’d been a wheel in our place, though.’
‘Did not your father know about it?’ asked Margaret.
‘Yes! And he were sorry. But our factory were a good one on the whole; and a steady likely set o’ people; and father was afeard of letting me go to a strange place, for though yo’ would na think it now, many a one then used to call me a gradely lass enough. And I did na like to be reckoned nesh and soft, and Mary’s schooling were to be kept up, mother said, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to lectures o’ one kind or another — all which took money — so I just worked on till I shall ne’er get the whirr out o’ my ears, or the fluff out o’ my throat i’ this world. That’s all.’
‘How old are you?’ asked Margaret.
‘Nineteen, come July.’
‘And I too am nineteen.’ She thought, more sorrowfully than Bessy did, of the contrast between them. She could not speak for a moment or two for the emotion she was trying to keep down.
‘About Mary,’ said Bessy. ‘I wanted to ask yo’ to be a friend to her. She’s seventeen, but she’s th’ last on us. And I don’t want her to go to th’ mill, and yet I dunno what she’s fit for.’
‘She could not do’— Margaret glanced unconsciously at the uncleaned corners of the room —‘She could hardly undertake a servant’s place, could she? We have an old faithful servant, almost a friend, who wants help, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague her with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and an irritation.’
‘No, I see. I reckon yo’re right. Our Mary’s a good wench; but who has she had to teach her what to do about a house? No mother, and me at the mill till I were good for nothing but scolding her for doing badly what I didn’t know how to do a bit. But I wish she could ha’ lived wi’ yo’, for all that.’
‘But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and live with us as a servant — and I don’t know about that — I will always try and be a friend to her for your sake, Bessy. And now I must go. I will come again as soon as I can; but if it should not be tomorrow, or the next day, or even a week or a fortnight hence, don’t think I’ve forgotten you. I may be busy.’
‘I’ll know yo’ won’t forget me again. I’ll not mistrust yo’ no more. But remember, in a week or a fortnight
