The novel describes the life of a large family in the west midlands town of Stoneborough. The widowed father, Dick May, is a doctor, and he has eleven children of whom we meet several in the following extracts.
The extracts describe the work that the family do amongst the quarry-workers who live in a wild settlement called Cocksmoor some miles outside the town. The moving spirit in this is Etheldred, supported mainly by sensible Richard and loyal Mary. Although her representation of the Mays' charitable social work is plainly idealised, Yonge does not pretend that their relationship with the people of Cocksmoor is trouble-free.
... they proceeded for at least a mile along a cart-track through soft-tufted grass and heath and young fir-trees. It ended in a broad open moor, stony and full of damp boggy hollows, forlorn and desolate under the autumn sky. Here they ... walked on along a very rough and dirty road, the ground growing more decidedly into hills and valleys as they advanced, till they found themselves before a small, but very steep hillock, one side of which was cut away into a slate quarry. Round this stood a colony of roughly-built huts of mud, turf, or large blocks of the slate. Many workmen were engaged in splitting up the slates, or loading wagons with them, rude wild-looking men, at the sight of whom the ladies shrank up to their protectors, but who seemed too busy even to spare time for staring at them.
They were directed to John Taylor's house, a low mud cottage, very wretched looking, and apparently so smoky that Mr Ernescliffe and Norman were glad to remain outside and survey the quarry, while the ladies entered.
Inside they found more cleanliness and neatness than they had expected, but there was a sad appearance of poverty, insufficient furniture, and the cups and broken tea-pot on the table, holding nothing but toast and water, as a substitute for their proper contents. The poor woman was sitting by the fire with one twin on her lap, and the other on a chair by her side, and a larger child was in the corner by the fire, looking heavy and ill, while others of different ages lounged about listlessly. She was not untidy, but very pale, and she spoke in a meek, subdued way, as if the ills of life were so heavy on her that she had no spirit even to complain. She thanked them for their gifts but languidly, and did not visibly brighten when told that her husband was better.
Flora asked when the babes would be christened.
"I can't hardly tell, Miss -- 'tis so far to go."
"I suppose none of the children can go to school? I don't know their faces there," said Flora, looking at a nice tall, smooth-haired girl of thirteen or fourteen.
"No, Miss--'tis so far. I am sorry they should not, for they always was used to it where we lived before, and my oldest girl she can work nicely. I wish I could get a little place for her."
"You would hardly know what to do without her," said Miss Winter.
"No ma'am; but she wants better food than I can give her, and it is a bad wild place for a girl to grow up. It is not like what I was used to ma'am; I was always used to keep to my school and to my church-- but it is a bad place to live in here."
No one could deny it, and the party left the cottage gravely. Alan and Norman joined them, having heard a grievous history of the lawlessness of the people from a foreman with whom they had met. There seemed to be no visible means of improvement. The parish church was Stoneborough, and there the living was very poor, the tithes having been appropriated to the old Monastery, and since its dissolution having fallen into possession of a Body that never did anything for the town. The incumbent, Mr Ramsden, had small means, and was not a high stamp of clergyman, seldom exerting himself, and leaving most of his parish work to the two under masters of the school, Mr Wilmot and Mr Harrison, who did all they had time and strength for, and more too, within the town itself. There was no hope for Cocksmoor!
"There would be a worthy ambition!" said Etheldred, as they turned their
steps homeward. "Let us propose that aim to ourselves, to build a church
on Cocksmoor!"
Etheldred had the satisfaction of seeing the Taylors at school on Sunday, but no Halls made their appearance, and, on inquiry, she was told, "Please ma'am, they said they would not come;" so Ethel condemned Granny Hall as "a horrid, vile, false, hypocritical old creature! It was no use having anything more to do with her. ... this is so abominable, when they had those nice frocks, and those two beautiful eighteen-penny shawls! There are three shillings out of my pound thrown away!"
"Perhaps there was some reason to prevent them. We will go and see." [said Richard]
"We shall only hear some more palavering. I want to have no more to say to --" but here Ethel caught herself up, and began to perceive what a happiness it was that she had not the power of acting on her own impulses.
... Ethel began to think of Cocksmoor again, and she accomplished another walk there with Richard, Flora, and Mary, to question Granny Hall about the children's failure.
The old woman's reply was a tissue of contradictions: the girls were idle hussies, all contrary: they plagued the very life out of her, and she represented herself as using the most frightful threats, if they would not go to school. Breaking every bone in their skin was the least injury she promised them; till Mary, beginning to think her a cruel old woman, took hold of her brother's coat-tails for protection.
"But I am afraid, Mrs Hall," said Richard, in that tone which might be either ironical or simple, "if you served them so, they would never be able to get to school at all, poor things."
"Bless you, sir, d'ye think I'd ever lay a finger near them; it's only the way one must talk to children, you see," said she, patronising his inexperience.
"Perhaps they have found that out," said Richard.
Granny looked much entertained, and laughed triumphantly and shrewdly, "ay, ay, that they have, the lasses--they be sharp enough for anything, that they be. Why, when I tell little Jenny that there's the black man coming after her, what does she do but she ups and says, 'Granny, I know 'tis only the wind in the chimney.'"
"Then I don't think it seems to answer," said Richard. "Just suppose you were to try for once, really punishing them when they won't obey you, perhaps they would do it next time."
"Why, sir, you see I don't like to take a stick to them; they've got no mother, you see, sir."
Mary thought her a kind grandmother, and came out from behind her brother.
"I think it would be kinder to do it for once. What do you think they will do as they grow older, if you don't keep them in order when they are little?"
This was foresight beyond Granny Hall, who began to expatiate on the troubles she had undergone in their service, and the excellence of Sam. There was certainly a charm in her manners, for Ethel forgot her charge of ingratitude, the other sisters were perfectly taken with her, nor could they any of them help giving credence to her asseverations that Jenny and Polly should come to school next Sunday.
They soon formed another acquaintance; a sharp-faced woman stood in their path, with a little girl in her hand, and arrested them with a low curtsey, and not a very pleasant voice, addressing herself to Flora, who was quite as tall as Richard, and appeared the person of most consequence.
"If you please, miss, I wanted to speak to you. I have got a little girl here, and I want to send her to school, only I have no shoes for her."
"Why, surely, if she can run about here on the heath, she can go to school," said Flora.
"Oh! but there is all the other children to point at her. The poor thing would be daunted, you see, miss; if I could but get some friend to give her a pair of shoes, I'd send her in a minute. I want her to get some learning; as I am always saying, I'd never keep her away, if I had but clothes to send her in. I never lets her be running on the common, like them Halls, as it's a shame to see them in nice frocks, as Mrs Hall got by going hypercriting about."
"What's your name?" said Richard, cutting her short.
"Watts, if you please, sir; we heard there was good work up here, sir, and so we came; but I'd never have set foot in it if I had known what a dark heathenish place it is, with never a Gospel minister to come near it," and a great deal more to the same purpose.
Mary whispered to Flora something about having outgrown her boots, but Flora silenced her by a squeeze of the hand, and the two friends of Cocksmoor felt a good deal puzzled.
At last Flora said, "You will soon get her clothed if she comes regularly to school on Sundays, for she will be admitted into the club; I will recommend her if she has a good character and comes regularly. Good-morning, Mrs Watts. Now we must go, or it will be dark before we get home." And they walked hastily away.
"Horrid woman!" was Ethel's exclamation.
"But, Flora," said innocent Mary, "why would you not let me give the little girl my boots?"
"Perhaps I may if she is good and comes to school," said Flora.
...
"How well you helped us out, Flora," said Ethel; "I did not know in the least what to say."
"It will be the best way of testing her sincerity," said Flora; "and at least it will do the child good; but I congratulate you on the promising aspect of Cocksmoor."
"We did not expect to find a perfect place," said Ethel; "if it were, it would be no use to go to it."
Ethel could answer with dignity, but her heart sank at the aspect of what she had undertaken. She knew there would be evil, but she had expected it in a more striking and less disagreeable form.
Supremely happy were the young people as they reached the common, and heard the shout of tumultuous joy, raised by their pupils, who were on the watch for them. All was now activity. Everybody tripped into Mrs Green's house, while Richard and Ethel ran different ways to secure that fires were burning, which they had hired, to boil their kettles, with the tea in them.
Then when the kitchen was so full that it seemed as if it could hold no more, some kind of order was produced, the children were seated on their benches, and, while the mothers stood behind to listen, Mr Wilmot began to examine, as well as he could in so crowded an audience.
There was progress. Yes, there was. Only three were as utterly rude and idealess as they used to be at Christmas. Glimmerings had dawned on most, and one -- Una M'Carthy -- was fit to come forward to claim Mr Wilmot's promise of a Prayer-book. She could really read and say the Catechism -- her Irish wit and love of learning had outstripped all the rest -- and she was the pride of Ethel's heart, fit, now, to present herself on equal terms with the Stoneborough set, as far as her sense was concerned -- though, alas! neither present nor exhortation had succeeded in making her anything, in looks, but a picturesque tatterdemalion, her sandy elf-locks streaming over a pair of eyes, so dancing and gracieuses, that it was impossible to scold her.
With beating heart, as if her own success in life depended for ever on the way her flock acquitted themselves, Ethel stood by Mr Wilmot, trying to read answers coming out of the dull mouths of her children, and looking exultingly at Richard whenever some good reply was made, especially when Una answered an unexpected question. It was too delightful to hear how well she remembered all the history up to the flood, and how prettily it came out in her Irish accent! That made up for all the atrocious stupidity of others, who, after being told every time since they had begun who gave their names, now chose to forget.
In the midst, while the scholar next in proficiency to Una, a boy who could read words of five letters without spelling, there was a fresh squeezing at the door, and, the crowd opening as well as it could, in came Flora and Blanche, while Norman's head was seen for a moment in the doorway.
Flora's whisper to Ethel was her first discovery that the closeness and the heat of the room was nearly overpowering. Her excitement had made all be forgotten. "Could not a window be opened?"
Mrs Green interfered -- it had been nailed up because her husband had the rheumatiz!
"Where's Aubrey?" asked Mary.
"With Norman. Norman said he would not let him go into the black-hole, so he has got him out of doors. Ethel, we must come out! You don't know what an atmosphere it is! Blanche, go out to Norman!"
"Flora, Flora! you don't consider," said Ethel, in an agony.
"Yes, yes. It is not at all cold. Let them have their presents out of doors, and eat their buns."
Richard and Mr Wilmot agreed with Flora, and the party were turned out. Ethel did own, when she was in the open air, "that it had been rather hot."
Norman's face was a sight, as he stoood holding Aubrey in his arms, to gratify the child's impatience. The stifling den, the uncouth aspect of the children, the head girl so very ragged a specimen, thoroughly revolted his somewhat fastidious disposition. This was Ethel's delight! to this she made so many sacrifices! this was all that her time and labour had effected! He did not wish to vex her, but it was more than he could stand.
However, Ethel was too much engrossed to look for sympathy. It was a fine spring day, and on the open space of the common the arrangements were quickly made. The children stood in a long line and the baskets were unpacked. Flora and Ethel called the names, Mary and Blanche gave the presents, and assuredly the grins, courtesies, and pulls of the forelock they elicited, could not have been more hearty for any of Miss Rivers's treasures. The buns and the kettles of tea followed -- it was perfect delight to entertainers and entertained, except when Mary's dignity was cruelly hurt by Norman's authoritatively taking a kettle out of her hands, telling her she would be the death of herself or somebody else, and reducing her to the mere rank of bun distributor, which Blanche and Aubrey could do just as well; while he stalked along with a grave and resigned countenance, filling up the cups held out to him by timid-looking children. Mary next fell in with Granny Hall, who had gone into such an ecstasy over Blanche and Aubrey, that Blanche did not know which way to look; and Aubrey, in some fear that the old woman might intend to kiss him, returned the compliments by telling her she was "ugly up in her face," at which she laughed heartily, and uttered more vehement benedictions.
Finally, the three best children, boys and girls, were to be made fit to be seen, and recommended by Mr Wilmot to the Sunday-school and penny club at Stoneborough, and, this being proclaimed and the children selected, the assembly disperseed, Mr Wilmot rejoicing Ethel and Richard by saying, "Well, really, you have made a beginning. There is an improvement in tone among those children, that is more satisfactory than any progress they may have made."
Ethel's eyes beamed, and she hurried to tell Flora. Richard coloured, and gave his quiet smile, and turned to put things in order for their return.
"Will you drive home, Richard?" said Norman, coming up to him.
"Don't you wish it?" said Richard, who had many minor arrangements to make, and would have preferred walking home independently.
"No, thank you, I have a headache, and walking may take it off," said Norman, taking off his hat and passing his fingers through his hair.
"A headache again -- I am sorry to hear it."
"It is only that suffocating den of yours. My head ached from the moment I looked into it. How can you take Ethel into such a hole, Richard? It is enough to kill her to go on with it for ever."
"It is not so every day," said the elder brother quietly. "It is a warm day, and there was an unusual crowd."
"I shall speak to my father," exclaimed Norman, with somewhat of the supercilious tone that he had now and then been tempted to address to his brother. "It is not fit that Ethel should give up everything, health and all, to such a set as these. They look as if they had been picked out of the gutter -- dirt, squalor, everything disgusting, and summer coming on, too, and that horrid place with no window to open! It is utterly unbearable!
Richard stooped to pick up a heavy basket, then smiled and said, "You must get over such things as these if you mean to be a clergyman, Norman."
"Whatever I am to be, it does not concern the girls being in such a place as this. I am surprised that you could suffer it."
Jealousies had arisen there, and these, with some rebukes for failures in sending children to be taught, had led to imputations on the character of Mrs Green, in whose house the school was kept. Ethel was at first vehement in her defence; then when stronger evidence was adduced of the woman's dishonesty, she was dreadfully shocked, and wanted to give up all connection with her, and in both moods was equally displeased with Richard for pausing, and not going all lengths with her.
Mr Wilmot was appealed to, and did his best to investigate, but the only result was to discover that no one interrogated had any notion of truth, except John Taylor, and he knew nothing of the matter. The mass of falsehood, spite, violence, and dishonesty, that became evident, was perfectly appalling, and not a clue was to be found to the truth -- scarcely a hope that minds so lost to honourable feeling were open to receive good impressions. It was a great distress to Ethel -- it haunted her night and day -- she lay awake pondering on the vain hopes for her poor children, and slept to dream of angry faces and rude accusations. Margaret grew quite anxious about her, and her elders were seriously considering the propriety of her continuing her labours at Cocksmoor. ...
This doubt put Ethel into an agony. Though she had lately been declaring that it made her very unhappy to go -- she could not bear the sight of Mrs Green, and that she knew all her efforts were vain while the poor children had such homes; she now only implored to be allowed to go on; she said that the badness of the people only made it more needful to do their utmost for them ...
The invasion of Cocksmoor [by the Ladies committee of Stoneborough, who supervise the National School there] was not only interference with her own field of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of her scholars. Since the departure of Mr Wilmot, matters at Stoneborough National School had not improved, though the Misses Anderson talked a great deal about progress, science, and lectures.
The Ladies' Committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and that one was a veteran wh endured them, or whom they could endure beyond her first half-year. No mistress had stayed a year within the memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real education, and, as each lady held different opinions and proscribed all books not agreeing thereto, everything "dogmatical" was excluded; and, as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and steam-engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitor for the week. If the ten generals could only have given up to Miltiades, but alas! there was no Miltiades. Mr Ramsden's [the vicar] health was failing, and his neglect told upon the parish in the dreadful evils reigning unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching might have saved. Mental arithmetic, and the rivers of Africa, had little power to strengthen the soul against temptation.
The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronised Cherry Elwood [the teacher at Cocksmoor], and thus had, perhaps, first aroused the emulation that led Mrs Ledwich on a visit of inspection, to what she chose to consider as an offshoot of the National School.
The next day she called upon the Misses May. It was well that Ethel was not at home. Margaret received the lady's horrors at the sight of the mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother! Miss Flora and Miss Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no time in convening the Ladies' Committee, and appointing a successor to "that Elwood," as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If Margaret had not known that Mrs Ledwich sometimes threatened more than she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say a good word for Cherry, but was talked down, and had reason to believe that Mrs Elwood had mortally offended Mrs Ledwich.
The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Cocksmoor. Mrs Elwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that there Mrs Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her own place -- how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children, and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and see whether it were a fit one for them to use; whereupon Mrs Elwood had burst out in defence -- it was Miss Ethel May's book, and should not be taken away -- it was Miss Ethel as she looked to; and when it seemed that Mrs Ledwich had said something disparaging of Miss Ethel, either as to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs Elwood had fired up into a declaration that "Miss Ethel was a real lady -- that she was! and that no real lady would ever come prying into other folk's work and finding fault with what wasn't no business of theirs," with more of a personal nature which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted it.
Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a word, except in quiet reply, and being equally terrified by the attack and defence, had probably seemed more dull than was her wont. Her real feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when in her peaceful conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the young ladies would not let her stand in the children's light, when a better teacher could be found for them.
"I am sure!" cried Ethel, as she heard this, "it would be hard to find such a teacher in humility! Cherry bears it so much better than I, that it is a continual reproof!"
As to the dullness, against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon it had made her erect it into a positive merit; she was always comparing the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanour of Cherry's scholars with the notorious faults of the National School girls, as if these defects had been implanted either by Mrs Ledwich, or by geography. It must be confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant companion.
However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current of the ladies' thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after day to Cocksmoor, unmolested by further reports of Mrs Ledwich's proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman had just returned home for the Long Vacation, and [walked with Ethel and Mary to Cocksmoor, describing on the way a recent visit he had made to old Mr Wilmot, an elderly clergyman].
It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman's mind. Sixty years ago, old Mr Wilmot had been what he now was himself -- an enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. ... His parish, carefully watched for so many years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away.
"Thank you!" said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart.
She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they could not be taught the use of their eyelids.
"Did they stare?" said Ethel. "That's one advantage of being blind. No one can stare me out of countenance."
"Why were you answering all your questions yourself?" asked Mary.
"Because no one else would," said Norman.
"You used such hard words," replied Ethel.
"Indeed! I thought I was very simple."
"Oh!" cried Mary, "there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, and -- oh, so many."
"Never mind," said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. "It is better for them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language. ..."
"Then you don't like it?" said Mary, disappointed.
"It is time to learn not to be fastidious. ... I see now that these things that puff us up, and seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this! Think of old Mr Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all his powers well bestowed in fifty years' teaching of clowns!"