The Reckoning (49 page)

Miss Withington was greeted with cries of affectionate
enquiry from all round the room, and plunged at once into the social embrace of this cosy enclave; Miss Pendlebury, standing beside Sophie in the doorway, said sourly, 'Well,
Miss Morland, now you see what our Benevolent Society
really stands for. I think three quarters of our members have
never seen anything closer to poverty than this room.’

Before Sophie could reply, a voice behind them said, 'Too
harsh, Miss Pendlebury! Everyone has not your dedication.
We must allow them their little rewards, and coax them grad
ually to more exertion.’

Both young women turned, and Sophie found herself
looking up at a tall, cadaverously-thin man with badger-grey
hair, and dark eyes as ferally-bright as a wild cat's.

Miss Pendlebury's cheeks had more colour than Sophie had
ever seen in them. 'Miss Morland,' she said, 'may I present to
you Father Rathbone, the missionary in residence and
founder of our society. He has been struggling with poverty
and disease in these streets for more years than he cares to
remember.'

‘
Very many more,' Rathbone said. He smiled a smile of
piercing sweetness at Miss Pendlebury, and then looked down
into Sophie's eyes. 'Miss Morland of Morland Place?'

‘
I – yes – that is, my mother is –' Sophie said, confused by
his burning gaze. His eyes seemed to look right through her
and into the most secret places of her soul. She felt weak and
confused as though he meant to devour her, as a stoat does a
rabbit after first mesmerising it.

‘
Yes, I had heard that Lady Morland was visiting
Manchester. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss
Morland. I knew your chaplain, Father Aislaby – we went
through seminary together.'

‘
He left us,' Sophie said abruptly.

‘
Yes, I know. He was called to India, to save the heathens.
He wanted me to go with him, and once I might have, but I
hadn't finished my work here. Somehow I think I never shall.'

‘
The poor you have always with you,' Miss Pendlebury
said, and Rathbone turned his burning eyes on her, much to
Sophie's relief. She didn't like him – he made her feel unfin
ished, awkward, exposed. There was something almost frigh
tening about him. Miss Pendlebury, on the other hand,
plainly did not feel that way. She seemed to want his eyes on
her, as though she liked being mesmerised.

‘
That's true,' he answered her. 'And too many people take
it as an excuse to do nothing. Unlike you, Miss Pendlebury. I
wish there were more like you. Did you go and see old Phillips
today?'

‘
Yes. His lungs are no better, I'm afraid.'

‘
And never will be while he lives in that place. And did you
see Wellings?'

‘
No. I did not take Miss Morland to
that
part of town.' It
was only a slight emphasis, but enough to tell Sophie that she
had been spared the worst. She felt a brief surge of annoy
ance, but then dismissed it as foolish. She ought instead to
feel grateful to Miss Pendlebury for her considerateness.

‘
There are a number of cases I wished to consult you
about,' Rathbone said, holding Miss Pendlebury's gaze, 'but
they must wait. I will not interrupt your conversation any
further.’

Sophie said quickly, 'I beg you will not hold back on my account. I shall be quite happy to sit quietly over there and
read your pamphlets while you conduct your business. Pray,
Miss Pendlebury, don't worry about me for another moment.’

She stepped away from them hastily and, avoiding the trap
of Miss Withington, who was deep in conversation on the
other side of the room with a group of friends, she went to the table and picked up a pamphlet, which she discovered was on
the subject of the virtues of cleanliness. She remained
standing, reading it with enough attention to allow Miss Pendlebury her moments of communion with her strange
priest, but still keeping an eye on her so as to be ready to leave whenever she should have finished.

They were standing just inside the door, and had to move
aside a little every time someone came in or out, which was
inconveniently often, but they seemed too closely involved
with each other to think of removing to a more comfortable
place. And then a man came in whose eyes went straight to
Sophie as though she had been the only person in the room,
and she looked up in surprise, and felt her cheeks colouring. It
was Jasper Hobsbawn.

He came over to her, his face so grave that she thought at
first he disapproved of her presence; but when he reached her
and she looked up at him she saw that the expression of his
eyes was warm. 'Why, Miss Morland,' he said, 'what a
surprise to find you here. But let me see,' glancing round him
briefly, 'you came with Miss Pendlebury, of course.'

‘Yes,' said Sophie. 'And Miss Withington.'

‘
Miss Pendlebury is well known in philanthropic circles.
She does a great deal of good,' said Jasper. He did not
mention Miss Withington at all, she noticed. 'I hope she
hasn't proposed taking you on her visits.'

‘Why do you hope that?'

‘
Because there are some parts of town – around Water
Street and Long Millergate and Grey's Court – which it
would not be at all suitable for you to visit.’

She was puzzled, and a little annoyed. 'What can it be that
Miss Pendlebury might properly visit, but I might not?’

He looked a little agitated. 'There are sights there, Miss Morland, which – well, you are a gently-bred young lady,
and –’

‘Miss Pendlebury is also a gentlewoman.'

‘
Of course, of course! I didn't mean to suggest – but she is a
great deal older than you, and used to such things. While you –’

‘
I visit the sick and poor at home, Mr Hobsbawn,' Sophie
said firmly. 'And I was in Brussels after the battle of
Waterloo. I'm sure I saw worse things there than Manchester
has to shew me. Besides –' She stopped, not wanting to be
rude to him.

He looked at her for a moment with tightly-closed lips; and
then he let out his breath in a shaky laugh. 'Besides, it's none of my business,' he finished for her. 'You're right, of course.
It was just that I wanted, foolishly, to protect you from the
unpleasantnesses of life. I should like to be able to make sure
that only beauty and kindness ever impinged on you. But,' he
went on hastily, 'I dare say you would not thank me for it,
and find it boring in the extreme.’

He had spoken the words with such gentleness and
sincerity that Sophie felt touched and glad and agitated, all at
once.
Wanted to protect her? To secure for her beauty and
kindness?
These were strangely tender sentiments from a man
who was almost a stranger. She smiled up at him shyly.

‘
Oh no! That is – not boring, perhaps, but – we must be
useful where we can, mustn't we?'

‘
We must,' he said, still looking at her as if he were having
quite a different conversation with her from the one she was
having with him.

‘
And the little I have seen, from the carriage window,
suggests there's a great deal that needs to be done.’

‘
Yes, there is.'

‘
Are you interested in philanthropy, Mr Hobsbawn?' she
asked in desperation.

‘
Yes,' he said, and pulled himself together with an obvious
effort. 'Yes, I am. Or rather, I'm interested in the plight of the
mill-hands, and how to improve their lot. It's a matter of the
greatest importance to me.'

‘
Then won't you take me seriously, and tell me about your ideas?' She looked directly into his eyes, surprising him with
her frankness.

‘
I do take you seriously, Miss Morland,' he said gravely. ‘And of course I will tell you my ideas, if you think they'll
interest you. I'd like nothing better.’

Sophie and Héloïse dined alone that evening. They ate in
silence at first, both deep in their own thoughts. Sophie had arrived home so late that there had been no time for Héloïse
to ask her about her day before they went up to dress.

‘
Maman,' Sophie said at last, abruptly, 'are you really
going to sell the mills?'

‘
I don't know yet,' Héloïse answered, coming back from a
reverie about Morland Place and James. 'That is what I've
been discussing with Mr Hobsbawn. It's a question of money,
you see. Why do you ask?'

‘
Well, I was thinking – I was wondering if it might be
possible to keep them, and run them in a better way – a way
that was more pleasant for the mill-hands themselves, I
mean.'

‘
More pleasant for them? What can you mean, my Sophie?
What could be pleasant about a manufactory?'

‘
Well, that's just it, you see. There are so many things that
could be improved. Not only just the hours and the wages, but
the care of the children, and the houses they live in –'

‘
Sophie, what
are
you talking about?’

Sophie took a deep breath. 'Have you ever heard of Mr
Owen? Mr Owen of New Lanark?'

‘
New Lanark mill? Yes, the name is familiar, but I can't
quite think what –'

‘
Mr Owen's Plan, Maman. An entirely new idea for the
running of mills and the organising of the mill-workers. Mr Owen has it all worked out, and Mr Hobsbawn says it really
works, that the people are happier and healthier and that they
work harder, too, so that Mr Owen makes more profit.'

‘
Mr Hobsbawn? Our Mr Hobsbawn?'

‘
Yes, Maman. I met him today at the mission, and –’

‘
What mission? Sophie, tell me slowly from the beginning,
or I shall go distracted.’

Sophie told her of her day's activities, and of her meeting
with Jasper, and of what he had told her of the Owen Plan.
Robert Owen had taken over the New Lanark mill as
manager in 1798, and finding the condition of the work-force
pitiful, had undertaken a radical and vigorous campaign of
improvement. The hours of work were reduced so that the
hands were not exhausted at the end of the day. A school was
provided which all children under ten were forced to attend –they were not allowed inside the mills. Children between ten
and sixteen had to attend for two hours a day, and on
Sunday. The adult hands were taught and encouraged to
keep their homes and themselves clean, to embrace sobriety
and honesty, and to attend lessons and lectures at the school in their free time. And dancing and music and other cultural
activities were provided which the hands were obliged to
attend.