The Storyteller.

Waikato Argus, Volume VII, Issue 527, 16 December 1899, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

[Concluded). Miss Amy's statement was quite true. Yet the impression that it created was largely false. For when Mrs Sedgwich, red with indignation, gasped out, ' A factory « n -\ ! Who would have believed it of Mr England ! A common factory girl !' She had jumped to a conclusion as mistaken as natural. The Mrs England of that day, the Miss Alice Bingham of last week, though taken out of the factory, was not, in ordinary acceptance, a factory girl. She had arrived at Kirkham, quite without notice, three or four months ago, and had occupied under the tall chimneys of Finch and Company a small room entirely to herself. Exactly what she was doing was not known to the majority of the hands. Most of them whom a casual errand had introduced to her little apartment had formed a poor opinion of her industry. Appears to be drawing and scribbling on bits of paper best part of her time, and now and again she'll be messing with paints like a child or making scraps of fringe and that. I don't think Mr George will be tor keeping her very long.' Such was the judgment of those who had been brought into relation with Alice Bingham. ' However,' candour felt bound to add, ' she seems to be a nice, respectable lass enough quiet and civil, if only she could speak like a Christain, and wouldn't be ill-looking at all but for those spectacles.' The fact was that Alice Bingham had been brought over to discharge a special function. George England had felt for a long time the need in the factory of artistic judgement superior to his own. The rugs which now formed the staple products of his looms would be difficult to beat for solidity and all Btcrling qualities. But in bnlliancy and variety and general appearance he felt there was room tor much improvement. The business could hardly support an exclusive designer, but he thought that it would be advantagous if he could secure a person with some special knowledge of processes of an all-round rcsthetic efficiency. In that capacity Alice Bingham had unmistakably ' found' herself. In a very little her labour began to tell. Female handiwork was still largely in request in some of the details, and over tho girls her inlluence was felt in and out of the factory. She soon began to quit her private room and to sit among the sewing damsels, working with thorn an hour or more at a time. The quality of the work rapidly improved. Precision advanced everywhere, and a certain look of taste crept into details where taste was supposed to have nothing to say. And the girls themselves underwent a similar process. Hats and voices grew a shade less loud, and jesting which was not convenient either perished or lived underground. Alice dressed with almost Quaker like plainness. She lived in lodgings let by one of the foremen's wive 3. Outside the factory she made no friends. Probably beyond her working sphere which hardly intersected any social circle, no new arrival in the town ever excited less interest. She wa9 entirely unremarkable. The vicar has been pleased with her, and had even observed that perhaps, poor thing! she had seen bettor days. But to that the victress had res onded, ' Better -days indeed 1 She gnts thirty shillings a week I hear, and has an egg for tea every night.' With that, and a resolution to enlist her in tho G.F.S., the matter had been allowed to drop. And so, when the news of George England's social suicide got abroad, no one could remember the instrument with which it had been committed. With difficulty a mental portrait of her was collected, and, when that was achieved, indignation waxed hotter than ever. Not even pretty —pale and dull and dowdy. There must be insanity in the England blood.

' Men, as we all know,' said Mrs Sedgwick, are fools about beauty,' but insignificance in spectacles (excuso me, Amy; only about the glasses of course) Oh, I've no patience—no patience at all!' And perhaps Mrs Sedgwick had not very much.

'I suppose you won't call?'inquired Miss Amy Finch, in whom curiosity was pressing proper

pride. ' Call ?' said Mrs Sedgwick. • Ask me if IWgoing to call on Mrs Dove.' -.,,.

Now Mra Dove *a\ the newly wedded wife of Moses Dove the sweep. A year passed by, and the sentiment of Kirkholm had undergone little chance. More recent events (particularly the elopment of Miss Carry Whitworth) had shouldered the mesalliance from its evil preeminence, but it remained well in the foreground of polite disapprobation.

Mrs England—unrecognised even by one isolated upper-circle card, not even fortified by dresses which might have tinged scorn with consolatory spite moved about, under her shining spectacles, an insignificant, and it was believed an unhappy, adventuress. So friendleas waa her condition that Amy

Finch, whose folly was not unleavened by kindly feeling, did at last put in a plea for mercy. ' Oh, Mrs Whitworth,' she said, trusting to find her humiliation accessible to softer feelings, ' don't you think we could do something for the poor factory girl V (That name originally spoken in malice had now become the ordinary appellation of Mrs England.) 'lt you would back me up with with Mrs Se Igwick I wouldn t mind calling one bit—perhaps she wouldn't return it; I'don't think she is pushing—but of course unless you or 'Amy,' Mrs' Whitworth broke in, ' it's of no use. Your kind heart overbears your judgment". I wouldn't object to speaking to her at the penny-readings or at the teaparty, but further than that I could not go. Indeed, after what has happened, I must be extra careful. Besides,' Mrs Whitworth went on with more asperity, ' she has only herself to thank. If people would keep their places all would be well ' But pocr George England—for his sake, don't you think V ' Oh, poor George England does not want much pity. Upon my word, to look at him, you would fancy he had done something to be proud of.' ' What a queer ■ smile he has !' remarked Amy, half thinking aloud ' Sometimes I feel almost as if he was laughing at us all.' ' Not at us all, my dear,' s.iid Mrs Whitworth. • I hear she is doing wonderful things among the hands,' said Amy reverting to the factory girl. ' They have social evenings and Bibleclasses and technical instruction—' whatever they may be—and a musical society and all sorts of things. The girls fairly adore her.' ' no doubt,' said Mrs Whitworth. ' She is one of themselves. Leave her in her own sphere. It is no kindness to fish to take them out of the sea.' ' Perhaps not,' said Amy sadly. 'No, I suppose not.' And Mrs Whitworth's assertion did not lack zoological foundation. About a month after the conversation another calamity befell the Whitworth family. The whole truth of the matter never came out, and a good deal that was not the truth probably did. So much, however, was beyond dispute- Mr Whitworth was brought home ill, and needed careful nursing. None of the ladies of the house were equal to the charge. The girls, Lilian and Dora, were not without aptitude or experience, but their mother would on no account admit them to the sick-room. She herself with all the household duties upon her, and with nerves a good deal shaken, could hardly support the whole onus of the need. It was known all over the town that the poor wife was seeking anxiously for some good helper for two or three days, when an old and trusted nurse from Machester was ready to as sumo the duty. At that crisis there came a quiet ring at the Whitworths' door, and the maid —somewhat reluctantly—admitted the factory girl. A quarter of an hour later the young ladies heard tho door of the sickroom open (letting out a strange and wandering voice that frightened them) and then close again. The factory girl had been- installed as nurse. It appeared that she was not without professional experience. For riomething like a year, Mrs« Whitworth understood, she had worked in one of the London hospitals, but some unexpected family call had broken off her career. The nurse who had been promised was never sent. The factory girl, after brief trial, proved of such efficiency and comfort that Mr 3 Whitworth could only look forward with dread to her supersession, even by that familiar presence. And, perhaps, if what was whispered had any foundation in fact, it was without importance that Mra England's attendance involved neither railway fare nor fee. At any rafc« the factory girl nursed Mr Whitworth back to health, and then quickly disappeared, emerging again among her devoted hands. There was joy in the factory that day, and perhaps a little sorrow in the Whitworth mansion. Mr Whitworth—with a stubby white board garnishing a chin hitherto obstinately youthful—had hardly crept out, leaning on a friendly arm, and seemingly not happy where anything could get behind him, when Mrs Sedgwick's son was brought home on a hurdle, with broken ribs and dislocated shoulder. Some cruel well-wisher had lent him a horse. The setting was well done and well borne, but the muscles of the shoulder were all wrenched and torn, and as night came on the pain became barely tolerable. By nine o'clock poor Gus was almost out of hU mind. He could not bear his mother in the room ; her step within a yard of the bed was like steel on naked nerves. At length, half in delirium, yet with unwavering constancy, the young fellow began to ask for M*3 England. 'I want the factory lady!' ho moaned. ' I want the factory lady!

They told him that that person could not be expected to come—could not beaked to come-that

she was out of town—that she herself was ill. It was of no use. ' I will have tho factory lady!' he cried. 'She is gentle; she does not make the furniture rattle ; ht r boots don't creak; she does not knock the bed with her knees—oh ! oh !—go away, mother; get out of the room, Miss Finch. With tears (and sniffs) the two ladies went and stood apart. But even that would not satisfy the auffercr. They must go out of tli3 room, but not shut the door—oh ! they must not grind that awful door after them.

They went; and a moment after they heard his feet upon the floor. With all the speed at her command his mother toiled up to him again. « Augustus,' she said, punctuating her speed with grasps, ' you aro mad ; you will displace the splints !' 'Can't help it,' he answered, with groans that almost rose into shrieks; ' I'm going to the factory lady.' Then Mrs Sedgwick gave way, 'Go back to bed,' she answered, ' and I will send for her.

In an hour Gus was asleep, holding the factory lady's hand. Now and again a m«in came from his lips, but always at the sound of her voice or the touch of her palm the restlessness seemed to pass. Towards the dawn there came two dreadful hours ; bnt they wore away, and the worst was over. Slowly but surely the patient mended.

And then there was a relapse. A letter with a London postmark was put into the convalescent's hands, and before an hour had passed he was in an alarming state—sobbing and shaking, with his blood at fever heat and a forehead that leaped almost visibly with its importunate pulses. Mrs England had left that very morning. But there was nothing for it but to pray her to come back. The lad would give no explanation. The letter was burnt. If anybody went near him he worked himself half into a frenzy. Already, the mother feared he had displaced his shoulder again. So the factory lady—somehow or other Gus's titular amendment had been adopted—returned to her charge. The story was soon out. I fear were were listeners at the door, and the lad poured forth his tale with noisy abandonment. He had been betting. But for incredible persistency of ill-luck he must havo won half a fortune, but, as the blundering malevolence of things went, he had lost . . . nearly . . . . quite . . . quite . . . . . Then the voice failed. What the sum was three persons only ever knew. But the silence in the room seemed grave. ' And I can't pay,' the confession ended, ' and of course I m ruined. Ob, Mrs England, if 1 could only die!'

That debt was paid, and it was the last betting debt that Gus Sedg wick ever incurred. How it was managed her mother never inquired. Perhaps it was a case in which ignorance was prudence if not bliss. ' I don't know what has come over him/ Mrs Sodgwick remarked of her son a little after the departure of the factory lady. 'He is quite an altered character.' ' She used to talk to him, mother,' said one of the three girls. ' Well, Julia,' soid Mrs Sedgwick, 'haven't I talked to him 1 I'm sure I've done it by the hour.' •I often saw tho tears rolling down his cheeks,' another of the girls observed. ' Yes, Marian,' said Mrs Sedgwick, not without asperity ; ' and if your shoulder was as black as a boot perhaps your tears would roll too.'

' I suppose, mother,' the girl ventured again, 'you will call on her now.'

' How can I do that, Marian V inquired her mother. ' Mrs England is a very excellent person, but she is not one of us. It is no kindness to introduce people into society whose ways they cannot understand. ' She is very quiet,' persisted the daring daughter, 'and she speaks like a lady.' Then let her stay quietly where Providence has placed her, and let her speak like a lady—well, in her own circle. I'll trouble you to ring the bell.'

So the factory lady was not received into Kirkholm society. Miss Amy Finch did indeed go so far as to entertain her with tea and cherry-cake, having sported her oak against all comers ; and Mrs Whitworth, bettering that example, invited her on two occasions to meet Miss Amy Finch and on each occasion the tea-drinkers heard callers come and in a loud whisper, ' Mrs England is here,' go softly away, At church and Sunday-school everybody was very polite to the factory lady, it was believed that, if encouraged by her, Gentlemen would have known her o in the street.

But, while socially an outsider, Mrs England, in other regards, was quite an insider. In sickrooms and in rooms where there was trouble of any kind she was the very bull's eye of Kirkholm. She had no child, and as George England's wife, her means were ample. Perhaps her heart was ample too. At any rate, sorrow stretched to her as flowers stretch to the light. It never stretched in vain,

One day, two years after Gus's recovery, Amy Finch—the stormy petrel of Kirkholm deeps—broke in again upon Mrs Sedgwick. Her eyes were red, her face was pale and scared. 'Oh, Mrs Sedgwick,' she cried, pressing her hands together, ' isn't it dreadful ? That Irish woman's child was ill—diphtheria, you know—and she did something—sucked the poison, I believe—and she is dead.'

'Who?' asked Mrs Sedgwick, who had been out of town for a fortnight. ' Who but one person would do such a thing V Amy made answer: ' the poor f-f-factory lady.' ' Oh,' said Mrs Sedgwick, ' I am sorry. Poor thing! poor thing! And yet how like her it was—how very like her ' Such a dirty child as that little Clancy.' Kirkholm was very kind. It sent wreaths by the dozen. It would have sent its carriages, but that, it was known, was not desired.

Amy Finch, stricken at heart as she was, could not forget that her rooms commanded the house of death as few others did. She asked two or three friends to come in very quietly, so that they could see the sad procession make its start. lb was all very simple. Only one carriage—only one mourner. O.dy one single wreath (out of all the floral profusion) set upon the plain coffin. That one was the gift of the mother of the sick child, now out of all danger; a very costly gift, for the woman would give her all. And indeed the factory lady had set the example. The mourner who leaned upon George England's arm was an elderly man of a swset and gracious dignity—a man to see once and remember always. ' Who is that I wonder V said Mrs Whitworth. ' What a splendid old man !'

' Some former employer, I should think,' Mrs Sedgwick answered. The all-gossiping maid of the lodgings was in the room, propriety forbidding her appearance at the front-door. Her information proved adequate to the occasion. If you please, ma'am,' she said, 1 that gentleman is her father. ' Her father !' said Amy French; ' why he looks like a nobleman.' ' If you please, ma'am,' answered the maid, 'so he is. He is one of those landlords who can't get their rents, and his name is Lord Kanturk.'

' Good gracious !' said Mrs Whitworth ; ' I wonder if George England knew.'

' Well,' Mrs Sedgwick answered, ' it seems likely.' 'There always was something strange in his smile,' Amy remarked.

' Yes,' said Mrs Sedgwick and Mrs Whitworth together, ' there always was.'

THE FACTORY GIRL.