Chapter I: A Town Cottage

"AND they call this 'Woodbine Cottage'!" said Susan Dunn, gazing out upon a paved street, where several unwashed children were disporting themselves in a gutter.

She looked dusty and unhappy, and she spoke disconsolately,—all three things rare with Susan Dunn, for a neater and brighter and more smiling little roundabout of a woman could in general be nowhere found.

The cottage wore an air of confusion. A damp floor told of recent scrubbing, as also did pail and soap, not to speak of Mrs. Dunn's own rolled-up sleeves and bare arms.

In one corner stood a pile of chairs: in another a small wooden cupboard. An empty book-case lay on the table, and through the open door might be seen a folded carpet, waiting for admission.

Side by side with the book-case, on the round table, sat cross-legged a little girl, about seven years old, contemplating the scene with sober eyes. She had plainly climbed there to be out of the way.

There had been a family flitting from an old home to a new. No unusual event this, in the lives of many men and women, but very unusual in the lives of Richard and Susan Dunn.

For during more than fifteen years Dunn had worked as a regularly attached labourer, under Messrs. Horry, Builders, &c.; and not merely as a labourer, but as a clever and skilful "handy man," though, unhappily for himself, not as a skilled artisan. A widowed mother had been unable to afford the seven years' apprenticeship in those days requisite; and Richard Dunn's abilities were thereby handicapped through his after life.

For fifteen years they had known no change; and now suddenly a change had become necessary. Times were bad for business men, and Dunn's employers had failed. Thereby many working-men were cast adrift, and compelled to flit elsewhere in search of employment.

Dunn found what he needed, with less difficulty than he had expected. But he had to quit the pretty cottage and well-cultivated garden-slip which had long been the pride of his heart; to say good-bye to friends of many years' standing; and to find himself fresh quarters at Littleburgh.

"Woodbine Cottage" had sounded hopeful, when first he was advised to take a look at it. Dunn soon found, however, that dreams of country prettiness and twining creepers must be put aside.

Littleburgh was a bustling manufacturing town, of perhaps some nine or ten thousand inhabitants, and, viewed from a money point of view, it might be regarded as a very thriving place. There were cloth-factories and other factories, some of the former being worked almost entirely by women. Fresh houses and streets were being run up in all directions: so the builders were just then having a fairly good time of it. Of course rents were proportionately dear.

The town lay in a flat unbeautiful neighbourhood; very different from the fair and hilly landscape the Dunns were used to look upon. Long rows of small red or white houses, as much alike one to another as a supply of pill-boxes, stretched away to the east and south; and beyond them lay wide brick-fields, with a kiln here and there.

"Woodbine Cottage" stood exactly in the middle of one such row. It was flanked by "Rose Cottage" and "Myrtle Cottage." But no roses, myrtles, or woodbine grew anywhere near.

The cottage contained four rooms, two below and two above; so it did well enough for a small family as to space. It opened straight upon the pavement, without an inch of garden in front, and with only a minute yard behind. No doubt the Dunns were well off to have so much. Some cottages in Littleburgh could boast no back yard at all. Still—when they should think of the garden they had left, the pinks and sweet-williams, the roses and geraniums, cannot we imagine how they would feel?

They had arrived quite early that morning, and Dunn had immediately gone straight off to his new work. He was not a man to waste one day without necessity.

For hours since, Susan and her eldest girl, Nancy, had been scrubbing and scouring. The bedrooms and the kitchen were now almost in order. Only the little parlour remained. Susan was bent upon getting that straight too, before her husband should come in.

"Just to make him feel home-like," she said once or twice.

But Susan was very tired, and her back ached. They had started early by train, and she had been up late the night before. So at length she stood still for a minute to rest, gazing out upon the street, and then it was that the words escaped her lips,—

"They call this 'Woodbine Cottage!'"

"It isn't so pretty as home, mother," a sedate small voice said, and the little maiden on the table folded her hands.

"Pretty! There isn't a scrap of woodbine anywhere," said Susan.

"Won't father get some?"

"It wouldn't grow here, if he did, I expect."

"Won't father get some nice garden-mould, mother?"

Susan shook her head. "I don't know what he'll do yet, child. We've got to make the best of things—somehow."

Then she fell to her work anew. The boards were getting dry, and soon it was time to lay the carpet down. The elder girl, Nancy, was upstairs, finishing the bedrooms; and the boy, Dick, had gone to assist. So Susie climbed off the table, and offered her tiny help. It was little, if anything, that she could really do; yet Susan would not spurn that little or nothing. For the child wanted to be useful, and that was good both for child and mother. So Susan had often said.

"Pull harder, Susie. It is not straight yet," Susan said encouragingly.

All at once a stronger hand grasped Susie's corner, and in a trice the matter was accomplished. Susan said, "Why, Richard!" and looked up.

No, not Richard Dunn. A stout motherly woman was raising herself erect.

"That was what you wanted, wasn't it?" she said. "So you've only just come?"

Susan answered civilly but coldly. She did not wish to plunge into fresh acquaintances, without knowing something first of the people around. Like a wise mother, she had a great notion of choosing good and desirable companions for her children.

But the new-comer, smiling good-humouredly, seemed unconscious of her coldness.

"Now, I suppose you'll put the cupboard into that recess. It'll just fit there, if I'm not mistaken. What a handsome bit of furniture it is! And that clock has the look of something uncommon. Old, isn't it?"

"Yes,—it came from Holland. It's more than a hundred years old," said Susan.

"Wouldn't Mr. Rawdon give something to have it! He's a wonderful fancier of old furniture and the like!"

Mr. Rawdon was Richard Dunn's new employer; but Susan said nothing. She could hardly refuse, however, the kindly offered help, and for a few minutes the two worked hard.

"That looks well!" the other said presently. "Is this little one your only child? Pretty," was murmured in a lower key.

"No, I've two others."

"Older or younger?"

"Dick is one year older; and Nancy is sixteen."

"Sixteen!"

The stout woman paused, looked at Susan, looked out of the window, and then once more looked back at Susan.

"I don't know you yet, my dear," she said. "I don't know whether you're one that minds a word of advice. I shouldn't wonder if you'll count it an impertinent interference. Maybe I should in your place. For I'm a stranger to you,—and if I say I'm Mrs. Mason from over the way, you'll not be much the wiser. But there's one thing I should like to say to you, now you've just come here, and don't know the ways of the place nor the people,—if you'll not take it ill, that's to say?"

Susan simply answered,—"No."

Mrs. Mason's face broke into a smile.

"I like that," she said. "I like a woman that don't pour out a rush of words, like water gallopading out of a spout. 'No' was enough: and you're right to say just that, and not a word more."

Susan privately thought that Mrs. Mason was admiring a virtue to which she had not herself attained.

"Well, but what I was going to say," resumed the other, "what I was going to say to you, was this: If you can help it, don't you let that girl of yours work in the factories!"

"My Nancy work in the factory!" Susan's comely face lighted up with a hot flush. "My Nancy! Thank you, Mrs. Mason. No, I'm not angry, indeed—but it's such an idea as never came into my head before!"

Susan stopped, and suddenly cooled down.

"But there! You don't know my Nannie yet," she said quietly.

"No, I don't, Mrs. Dunn."

"Nor her father—nor me!"

Mrs. Mason's face broke into a genial smile.

"I think I'm getting to know you fast, Mrs. Dunn," she said, "and the faster the better. I'm sorry I said a word about the factories, as it seems to put you out,—but, dear me, if you knew what I know! The young mothers that are out all day, working, and leaving their little ones with none to care for them! And the girls of fifteen and sixteen, who do for themselves, and won't brook a word of control from father nor mother nor anybody! Not but what there's good girls among them, and good women too. But I always do say there's a lot of temptation, specially for young things. And if I was you, I wouldn't send a girl of mine there without I was downright obliged. I wouldn't, Mrs. Dunn!"