# The Frobishers/Chapter 28

POTTERS' ROT
As Joan left the pottery at noon on Monday, it was with the intention of not returning to her work in the afternoon, that she might see Mrs. Beaudessart, and say farewell to her sister.
She hardly expected the lady to arrive early, and in the morning there was no need for her to remain away from the bank, for Sibyll was able herself to do her packing, and the sick boy would be attended to by two willing helps, Polly and Cissie.
Moreover, she was about to lose her sister's earnings, which, though inconsiderable, were of some assistance towards the housekeeping, and Joan foresaw that she would require every penny she was able to scrape together to maintain her little establishment. It was true that there was a small reserve fund that resulted from the sale of the furniture, etc., at Pendabury, but there had been nothing recovered from the bank, after the expenses of her father's funeral had been discharged; and what had been overdrawn for the sake of his rash speculations, she had been obliged to refund from the money obtained by the sale.
She was resolved to set aside for her sister the major portion of the sum at her disposal. It would not be reasonable to expect that the Beaudessarts, though taking her into their house, should find her in clothing and pocket-money. It was probable that they would do this, but she had no right to reckon on it.
For herself she was confident. She knew her own powers and skill. She was rapidly mastering the difficulties of the art of painting on porcelain, and all she would shortly require would be an opening for doing work that would be remunerative on a higher scale than the mere mechanical drudgery to which she was at present tied down. She could not hope for promotion from Mr. Mangin, but if she was not advanced at Fennings' bank, in course of time, she would endeavour to obtain work in another.
She had no thought of appealing to the proprietor, although he had promised to keep his eye on her, and the look he had given her as she left the sitting-room of Lavender Lodge had been encouraging.
For the sake of her sister, to protect her, she would have done this; but for herself, she preferred to be independent. Mr. Fenning was, as she could judge from his countenance, a plain, straightforward, and right-feeling man, a man to be depended upon, who, when he said a thing, said it with the intention of following up his words by action; but it would be a serious step to appeal to the head of the firm against the manager, and this she certainly would not do about such a matter as her own advancement.
As Joan left the potbank, she saw a pale, worn woman of middle age, who followed her. At first she made no account of this. The woman was but one of the hands of Fennings' or some other bank, leaving work and returning home for her midday meal, or going to one of the eating-houses, where, for a reasonable sum, it was possible to obtain a good dinner, should the distance of residence from the bank make a return home inconvenient.
But when she arrived at No. 16, she saw the same woman hanging behind, with a look as though she would like to speak to her.
Joan was, however, hurried by observing a cab standing before her door, with Sibyll's box on the roof, and this distracted her attention from her follower.
Mrs. Beaudessart had arrived at an earlier hour than had been anticipated by Joan, and Joan hastened to enter No. 16, and meet the lady, and clasp her hands and express thanks for her goodness to Sibyll.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Beaudessart. "It is you who are conferring a favour on me, and that one by no means inconsiderable. Do not be anxious about your sister. I will take the utmost care of her, and see to her interests, and concern myself with her future."
Sibyll, who was in the room, looked roguishly out of the corners of her eyes at Joan, and pursed her lips, and put just the point of her tongue to her cheek—telling her as plainly as if she had spoken, that she, Sibyll herself, purposed concerning herself about her own future.
Then the girl ran upstairs to cast her eye about the bedroom and assure herself that nothing had been left behind.
"I know you are good," said Joan to Mrs. Beaudessart; "I have been too proud and self-reliant hitherto. I have broken down with regard to my sister. She is not suited for a life that agrees with me. I had found this out, and was lost in perplexity what to do when your kind offer reached me."
The white-haired lady kissed Joan affectionately. "You see," she said, "Julie is away, so I am very solitary. I could not retain her with me. She is boiling over with energy, and would eat her heart out if not given a wide sphere for work. Sibyll, accordingly, is just the one person I want as a bright and delightful companion and a comfort to me. And now—we have not much time to spare, as I want to be at Pendabury early. Run after your sister—she is in her room—and say good-bye."
Joan ascended, and found Sibyll before the glass.
"Oh, Joan!" said the girl, "Mr. Beaudessart perhaps ought to have come here and helped his mother to get me off. However, it is just as well—I should not have relished his seeing me in such quarters as Fennings' Row, and with such associates as Cissie and Polly, as also with a dirty little vagabond coughing under the same roof. Oh, Joan! when will you leave this odious place? Mind you, when I am mistress of Pendabury,"—she dropped her voice,—-"as I mean to be, I will not have it said of me that my sister is a common factory girl. I shall be restive at Pendabury thinking of you here in this grubby hole."
"Julie is a common nurse."
"That is a different matter. Ladies by birth go out as hospital nurses. It is quite fashionable. But I never heard of a lady going to work in a pot-bank."
"I wish fervently I were not the only one."
"What would be the good of them coming among a lot of common women?"
"I would have them bring to the common women, as you call them, what they want: some of the light from above, the culture, self-restraint, and, above all, the sympathy that they so greatly need."
"We won't talk of that now. I am off, out of the brick-kilns of Egypt and away from its task-masters, and can do no other than sing my 'In exitu Israel.'"
Joan saw her sister off. Several of the girls were in the street; they had heard that the younger of the Frobishers was leaving, and a cab standing at a door in that thoroughfare was, in itself, a novelty sufficient to attract attention.
Joan waved her kerchief to Sibyll till the cab rounded the corner of Fennings' bank and was lost to sight. Then she turned, to find the wan woman hanging about her door.
Still occupied with the loss of her sister, Joan hardly accorded the poor creature any attention. The deprivation of her sister's company would leave her much alone; she would have no one with her now who was part of her past, and with whom she could look back into the sunshine of old Pendabury life. Although she knew it was the best thing that could happen to Sibyll, yet she keenly felt the pang of parting with her.
She put a kerchief to her eyes for a minute on entering the house, and sat wrapped in her meditations, till, all at once, she roused herself with the question—
"What can that woman want with me?"
At once she went forth to see if the poor creature were still there, or had departed.
She saw her, and the woman advanced the moment that Joan accorded her a look of encouragement.
"Is there anything that you require?" asked the girl, in a kindly tone.
"May I have one little word with you?" entreated the woman; and Joan noticed that she laboured in her breathing.
"Come within, and sit down."
The woman followed as Joan led the way, and took a seat pointed out to her. She was obviously in miserable health.
"It's a great piece of boldness," said she, "but I could find no rest till I made up my mind to ask it."
"Ask boldly; I can but refuse," answered Joan, in her pleasant, musical tones. "Be sure, however, of this, that I shall refuse you nothing which by any possibility I can grant, and then only with a sore heart. I see that you are suffering."
"I have the potters' rot," said the woman, putting her hand to her bosom. "It is here—the dust. I cannot any longer work in the bank. I cough—and when I cough it unsteadies my hand at the smoothing; so they have sacked me."
"Have you been long ill?"
"It has come on by degrees. I knew it would arrive at this. It can't be helped. The ware must be smoothed, and someone must do it—and then the dust gets into the lungs, and, little by little, lines and chokes the air passages. It's like the boilers; they get coated and crusted up in time, but a chap can get inside a boiler and chip out what is set there. It's like the chimbleys that get stuffed up with soot, but they can set a sweep with a brush to clear them out. No doctor can get with a chisel and hammer into my lungs and chip out the clay as is formed there, and no brush will sweep out the dust as is lodged there. So the pipes get thickened and stuffed up till no more air can pass through them, and that is potters' rot. It is a bit of asthma, and a bit of bronchitis, and a bit of consumption mixed together in about equal parts."
"But can nothing be done for you—nothing at all?"
"They do say that fresh country air would be a gain—but nothing will clear the flint and clay out of my lungs, when lodged there. Do you mind if I tell you about myself?"
"I shall be glad to hear."
"No, it won't make you glad—not if you are what I take you to be, and what folks tell of you. My husband was a placer, and he had to lift the saggers and pile them. Some he carried up a ladder, and they are heavy; you'd wonder if you had the lifting of 'em. Well, it requires a stiff man with stout arms, and he was that. I never saw a stiffer man than he. But one day he hurted his back, got a sprain or a twist—he himself never knew exactly how it came about and what it was. One doctor said one thing, and one another, but none did him any good. Perhaps he broke a cord, or got a kink in a muscle, I can't say; but from that time he steadily wasted away. My son, and daughter, and I worked to support him and pay the doctor's bills, but, Lord bless you! no doctors could do him any good; yet it was a satisfaction to have them come and examine him and prescribe, and folks 'ud have talked if we hadn't had plenty o' useless advice. So he went, and then my gal, she went also."
"Went—died?"
"No, I can't say that. She was wayward, and wouldn't stand speaking to; and when I complained of some of her goings on, and staying out so late of a night, she left me in a temper, and I've not seen her more. And the boy—he was a fine lad, and stuck to his mother. But he got a chill. He was a clayer, and was much in the damp, mixing the clays, and in a draughty place, and it settled on his chest, and he went off in a decline. They said he ought to have been taken into the country—but, Lord! how was I to do that? Well, I buried him. Not a penny help did I get from my daughter, but I don't know where she went, and what became of her."
The poor creature looked at Joan and saw by the working of her face that what she said had met with a response.
"I was left alone," she said, pursuing her life-story. "And it has been a solitary time with me for some years. No 'usband, no daughter, no son, nothing and no one to live for and love. But I held on till my lungs got clayed up, and now I'm turned away. I've got a mite of savings, though; look here!"
She opened a bag and produced coin, a few pieces of gold, one five-pound note, and some silver.
"There," said she. "I've put that by, but I can earn no more. And now, what F have come here to ask of you is this: Will you take me in? I've been told as how your sister were leaving you. They've been talking about it up and down the street all Sunday. So I know you have a room to spare. I am ready to pay for my lodgings and meat as long as this here money lasts."
"But what when it is expended?"
"Then there's nothing else for me but just to go into the canal."