One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have yo to do that?' said I. "'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's drawing-room.' "'And why are we to be molested,"' asked I, "'going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran' ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?' "But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed." John ceased. After waiting a little, to see if he would go on himself, Job said, "Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened when yo got to th' Parliament House." After a little pause, John answered, "If you please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; but I canna tell ofour down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll not speak of it no more. So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes. Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they bad done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So after a while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought. "Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London once?" "No!" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased respect. "Aye, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o' the time when I'd been young mysel', and had loved her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and mother, and gone out into th' world together, and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o' my eyes." "But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour." "Aye, so he were, and his father afore him. But work were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaret was to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days. She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly behind their backs.
They were married and stayed some days wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin', Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling; I knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving me. Well, they went at last You know them two letters, Margaret?" "Yes, sure," replied his granddaughter. "Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass. She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an' th' little one. But one day towards Whitsun-tide, corned Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse them. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o'er her as her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it himsel'; and she expecting her down-lying every day. Well, t' make a long story short, old Jennings and I went up by that night's coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London." "But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary, anxiously. "She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they were dead; fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out as if he'd been a woman. "Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only one.
She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no not one. I disremember rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me. "Jennings could na' stand being in the room at all, so the landlady took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.' So I got up, and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th' stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkerchief over his head for a night-cap.