Part 38 (1/2)
These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey- haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone- paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways--except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.
It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a bra.s.s plate, on which was engraved the owner's name, blazed like gold when there was any suns.h.i.+ne to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man's personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions--each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches--inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited--hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament--as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist's sketch-book; nor could any stranger pa.s.s him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face--for clearly there was suns.h.i.+ne there; yet not the full, bright suns.h.i.+ne of the cloudless summer, but the suns.h.i.+ne that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.
”Knives to grind!--scissors to grind!”
The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman's voice shouted out,--
”Ould Crow--Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors.
Our Ralph's been sc.r.a.ping the boiler lid with 'em, till they're nearly as blunt as a broom handle.”
”Ay, missus, I'll give 'em an edge; but you mustn't let your Ralph have all his own way, or he'll take the edge off your heart afore so long.”
The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.
”I'll warm thee!” he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.
At last the scissors were finished.
”I'll warm thee, Ould Crow!” shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.
The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.
”Are you much hurt, old friend?” asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.
”I don't know--the Lord help me!--I'm afeerd so,” replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.
”Those young rascals!” cried Jacob. ”I'd just like to give 'em such a hiding as they've ne'er had in all their lives afore.”
”Nay, nay, friend,” said the other; ”it wasn't altogether the lad's fault. But they're a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on 'em's mayster o' their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord'll reward ye.”
”You're welcome, old gentleman,” said Jacob. ”Can I do anything more for you?”
”Just lend me your arm for a moment; there's a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart.”
”Never trouble about that,” said Jacob, cheerily. ”I'll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road.”
”Bless you, lad; that'll be gradely help--'a friend in need's a friend indeed.' If you'll stick to the handles, I'll make s.h.i.+ft to hobble on by your side. I'm better now.”
They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile--for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken--they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.
”Here we are,” said the knife-grinder. ”Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we'll have a chat together arterwards.”
Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.
”Sit ye down, my lad,” said the knife-grinder. ”Deborah'll be back directly; the mills is just loosed.”
”Is Deborah your daughter?” asked Jacob.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully.
”No; I've never a one belonging me now.”