The light-heartedness, the power of enjoyment left in these old folk struck her dumb.  Mrs. Brunt had an income of two-and-sixpence a week, plus two loaves from the parish, and one of the parish or “charity” houses, a hovel, that is to say, of one room, scarcely fit for human habitation at all.  She had lost five children, was allowed two shillings a week by two labourer sons, and earned sixpence a week—­about—­by continuous work at “the plait.”  Her husband had been run over by a farm cart and killed; up to the time of his death his earnings averaged about twenty-eight pounds a year.  Much the same with the Pattons.  They had lost eight children out of ten, and were now mainly supported by the wages of a daughter in service.  Mrs. Patton had of late years suffered agonies and humiliations indescribable, from a terrible illness which the parish doctor was quite incompetent to treat, being all through a singularly sensitive woman, with a natural instinct for the decorous and the beautiful.

Amazing!  Starvation wages; hardships of sickness and pain; horrors of birth and horrors of death; wholesale losses of kindred and friends; the meanest surroundings; the most sordid cares—­of this mingled cup of village fate every person in the room had drunk, and drunk deep.  Yet here in this autumn twilight, they laughed and chattered, and joked—­weird, wrinkled children, enjoying an hour’s rough play in a clearing of the storm!  Dependent from birth to death on squire, parson, parish, crushed often, and ill-treated, according to their own ideas, but bearing so little ill-will; amusing themselves with their own tragedies even, if they could but sit by a fire and drink a neighbour’s cup of tea.

Her heart swelled and burned within her.  Yes, the old people were past hoping for; mere wreck and driftwood on the shore, the spring-tide of death would soon have swept them all into unremembered graves.  But the young men and women, the children, were they too to grow up, and grow old like these—­the same smiling, stunted, ignobly submissive creatures?  One woman at least would do her best with her one poor life to rouse some of them to discontent and revolt!

CHAPTER IX.

The fire sank, and Mrs. Hurd made no haste to light her lamp.  Soon the old people were dim chattering shapes in a red darkness.  Mrs. Hurd still plaited, silent and upright, lifting her head every now and then at each sound upon the road.

At last there was a knock at the door.  Mrs. Hurd ran to open it.

“Mother, I’m going your way,” said a strident voice.  “I’ll help you home if you’ve a mind.”

On the threshold stood Mrs. Jellison’s daughter, Mrs. Westall, with her little boy beside her, the woman’s broad shoulders and harsh striking head standing out against the pale sky behind.  Marcella noticed that she greeted none of the old people, nor they her.  And as for Mrs. Hurd, as soon as she saw the keeper’s wife, she turned her back abruptly on her visitor, and walked to the other end of the kitchen.