How the Third Floor Knew the Potteries

by Amelia B. Edwards

　　Some of those facts lie beyond my understanding. I do not pretend toexplain them. I only know that they happened as I relate them, andthat I pledge myself for the truth of every word of them.

　　I began life roughly enough, down among the Potteries. I was anorphan; and my earliest recollections are of a great porcelainmanufactory in the country of the Potteries, where I helped about theyard, picked up what halfpence fell in my way, and slept in a harness-loft over the stable. Those were hard times; but things betteredthemselves as I grew older and stronger, especially after GeorgeBarnard had come to be foreman of the yard.

　　George Barnard was a Wesleyan--we were mostly dissenters in thePotteries--sober, clear-headed, somewhat sulky and silent, but a goodfellow every inch of him, and my best friend at the time when I mostneeded a good friend. He took me out of the yard, and set me to thefurnace-work. He entered me on the books at a fixed rate of wages. Hehelped me to pay for a little cheap schooling four nights a week; andhe led me to go with him on Sundays to the chapel down by the river-side, where I first saw Leah Payne. She was his sweetheart, and sopretty that I used to forget the preacher and everybody else, when Ilooked at her. When she joined in the singing, I heard no voice buthers. If she asked me for the hymn-book, I used to blush and tremble.I believe I worshipped her, in my stupid ignorant way; and I think Iworshipped Barnard almost as blindly, though after a differentfashion. I felt I owed him everything. I knew that he had saved rue,body and mind; and I looked up to him as a savage might look up to amissionary.

　　Leah was the daughter of a plumber, who lived close by the chapel. Shewas twenty, and George about seven or eight-and-thirty. Some captiousfolks said there was too much difference in their ages; but she was soserious-minded, and they loved each other so earnestly and quietly,that, if nothing had come between them during their courtship, I don'tbelieve the question of disparity would ever have troubled thehappiness of their married lives. Something did come, however; andthat something was a Frenchman, called Louis Laroche. He was a painteron porcelain, from the famous works at Sèvres; and our master, it wassaid, had engaged him for three years certain, at such wages as noneof our own people, however skilful, could hope to command. It wasabout the beginning or middle of September when he first came amongus. He looked very young; was small, dark, and well made; had littlewhite soft hands, and a silky moustache; and spoke English nearly aswell as I do. None of us liked him; but that was only natural, seeinghow he was put over the head of every Englishman in the place.Besides, though he was always smiling and civil, we couldn't helpseeing that he thought himself ever so much better than the rest ofus; and that was not pleasant. Neither was it pleasant to see himstrolling about the town, dressed just like a gentleman, when workinghours were over; smoking good cigars, when we were forced to becontent with a pipe of common tobacco; hiring a horse on Sundayafternoons, when we were trudging a-foot; and taking his pleasure asif the world was made for him to enjoy, and us to work in.

　　"Ben, boy," said George, "there's something wrong about thatFrenchman."

　　It was on a Saturday afternoon, and we were sitting on a pile of emptyseggars against the door of my furnace-room, waiting till the menshould all have cleared out of the yard. Seggars are deep earthenboxes in which the pottery is put, while being fired in the kiln. Ilooked up, inquiringly.

　　"About the Count?" said I, for that was the nickname by which he wentin the pottery.

　　George nodded, and paused for a moment with his chin resting on hispalms.

　　"He has an evil eye," said he; "and a false smile. Something wrongabout him."

　　I drew nearer, and listened to George as if he had been an oracle."Besides," added he, in his slow quiet way, with his eyes fixedstraight before him as if he was thinking aloud, "there's a young lookabout him that isn't natural. Take him just at sight, and you'd thinkhe was almost a boy; but look close at him--see the little finewrinkles under his eyes, and the hard lines about his mouth, and thentell me his age, if you can! Why, Ben boy, he's as old as I am, prettynear; ay, and as strong, too. You stare; but I tell you that, slightas he looks, he could fling you over his shoulder as if you were afeather. And as for his hands, little and white as they are, there aremuscles of iron inside them, take my word for it."

　　"But, George, how can you know?"

　　"Because I have a warning against him," replied George, very gravely."Because, whenever he is by, I feel as if my eyes saw clearer, and myears heard keener, than at other times. Maybe it's presumption, but Isometimes feel as if I had a call to guard myself and others againsthim. Look at the children, Ben, how they shrink away from him; and seethere, now! Ask Captain what he thinks of him! Ben, that dog likes himno better than I do."

　　I looked, and saw Captain crouching by his kennel with his ears laidback, growling audibly, as the Frenchman came slowly down the stepsleading from his own workshop at the upper end of the yard. On thelast step he paused; lighted a cigar; glanced round, as if to seewhether anyone was by; and then walked straight over to within acouple of yards of the kennel. Captain gave a short angry snarl, andlaid his muzzle close clown upon his paws, ready for a spring. TheFrenchman folded his arms deliberately, fixed his eyes on the dog, andstood calmly smoking.

　　He knew exactly how far he dared go, and kepi just that one foot outof harm's way. All at once he stooped, puffed a mouthful of smoke inthe dog's eyes, burst into a mocking laugh, turned lightly on hisheel, and walked away; leaving Captain straining at his chain, andbarking after him like a mad creature.

　　Days went by, and I, at work in my own department, saw no more of theCount. Sunday came--the third, I think, after I had talked with Georgein the yard. Going with George to chapel, as usual, in the morning, Inoticed that there was something strange and anxious in his voice, andthat he scarcely opened his lips to me on the way. Still I saidnothing. It was not my place to question him; and I remember thinkingto myself that the cloud would all clear off as soon as he foundhimself by Leah's side, holding the same book, and joining in the samehymn.

　　It did not, however, for no Leah was there. I looked every moment tothe door, expecting to see her sweet face coming in; but George neverlifted his eyes from his book, or seemed to notice that her place wasempty. Thus the whole service went by, and my thoughts wanderedcontinually from the words of the preacher. As soon as the lastblessing was spoken, and we were fairly across the threshold, I turnedto George, and asked if Leah was ill?

　　"No," said he, gloomily. "She's not ill."

　　"Then why wasn't she--?"

　　"I'll tell you why," he interrupted, impatiently. "Because you've seenher here for the last time. She's never coming to chapel again."

　　"Never coming to the chapel again?" I faltered, laying my hand on hissleeve in the earnestness of my surprise. "Why, George, what is thematter?"

　　But he shook my hand off and stamped with his iron heel till thepavement rang again.

　　"Don't ask me," said he, roughly. "Let me alone. You'll know soonenough."

　　And with this he turned off down a by-lane leading towards the hills,and left me without another word.

　　I had had plenty of hard treatment in my time; but never, until thatmoment, an angry look or syllable from George. I did not know how tobear it. That day my dinner seemed as if it would choke me; and in theafternoon I went out and wandered restlessly about the fields till thehour for evening prayers came round. I then returned to the chapel,and sat down on a tomb outside, waiting for George. I saw thecongregation go in by twos and threes; I heard the first psalm-tuneecho solemnly through the evening stillness; but no George came. Thenthe service began, and I knew that, punctual as his habits were, itwas of no use to expect him any longer. Where could he be? What couldhave happened? Why should Leah Payne never come to chapel again? Hadshe gone over to some other sect, and was that why George seemed sounhappy?

　　Sitting there in the little dreary churchyard with the darkness fastgathering around me, I asked myself these questions over and overagain, till my brain ached; for I was not much used to thinking aboutanything in those times. At last, I could bear to sit quiet no longer.The sudden thought struck me that I would go to Leah, and learn whatthe matter was, from her own lips. I sprang to my feet, and set off atonce towards her home.

　　It was quite dark, and a light rain was beginning to fall. I found thegarden-gate open, and a quick hope flashed across me that George mightbe there. I drew back for a moment, hesitating whether to knock orring, when a sound of voices in the passage, and the sudden gleamingof a bright line of light under the door, warned me that someone wascoming out. Taken by surprise, and quite unprepared for the momentwith anything to say, I shrank back behind the porch, and waited untilthose within should have passed out. The door opened, and the lightstreamed suddenly upon the roses and the wet gravel.

　　"It rains," said Leah, bending forward and shading the candle with herhand.

　　"And is as cold as Siberia," added another voice, which was notGeorge's, and yet sounded strangely familiar. "Ugh! what a climate forsuch a flower as my darling to bloom in!"

　　"Is it so much finer in France?" asked Leah, softly.

　　"As much finer as blue skies and sunshine can make it. Why, my angel,even your bright eyes will be ten times brighter, and your rosy cheeksten times rosier, when they are transplanted to Paris. Ah I I can giveyou no idea of the wonders of Paris--the broad streets planted withtrees, the palaces, the shops, the gardens!--it is a city ofenchantment."

　　"It must be, indeed!" said Leah. "And you will really take me to seeall those beautiful shops?"

　　"Every Sunday, my darling--Bah! don't look so shocked. The shops inParis are always open on Sunday, and everybody makes holiday. You willsoon get over these prejudices."

　　"I fear it is very wrong to take so much pleasure in the things ofthis world," sighed Leah.

　　The Frenchman laughed, and answered her with a kiss.

　　"Good night, my sweet little saint!" and he ran lightly down the path,and disappeared in the darkness. Leah sighed again, lingered a moment,and then closed the door.

　　Stupefied and bewildered, I stood for some seconds like a stonestatue, unable to move; scarcely able to think. At length, I rousedmyself, as it were mechanically, and went towards the gate. At thatinstant a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a hoarse voiceclose beside my ear, said:

　　"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

　　It was George. I knew him at once, in spite of the darkness, andstammered his name. He took his hand quickly from my shoulder.

　　"How long have you been here?" said he, fiercely. "What right have youto lurk about, like a spy in the dark? God help me, Ben--I'm half mad.I don't mean to be harsh to you."

　　"I'm sure you don't," I cried, earnestly.

　　"It's that cursed Frenchman," he went on, in a voice that sounded likethe groan of one in pain.

　　"He's a villain. I know he's a villain; and I've had a warning againsthim ever since the first moment he came among us. He'll make hermiserable, and break her heart some day--my pretty Leah--and I lovedher so! But I'll be revenged--as sure as there's a sun in heaven, I'llbe revenged!"

　　His vehemence terrified me. I tried to persuade him to go home; but hewould not listen to me.

　　"No, no," he said. "Go home yourself, boy, and let me be. My blood ison fire: this rain is good for me, and I am better alone."

　　"If I could only do something to help you--"

　　"You can't," interrupted he. "Nobody can help me. I'm a ruined man,and I don't care what becomes of me. The Lord forgive me I my heart isfull of wickedness, and my thoughts are the promptings of Satan. Therego--for Heaven's sake, go. I don't know what I say, or what I do!"

　　I went, for I did not dare refuse any longer; but I lingered a whileat the corner of the street, and watched him pacing to and fro, to andfro in the driving rain. At length I turned reluctantly away, and wenthome.

　　I lay awake that night for hours, thinking over the events of the day,and hating the Frenchman from my very soul. I could not hate Leah. Ihad worshipped her too long and too faithfully for that; but I lookedupon her as a creature given over to destruction. I fell asleeptowards morning, and woke again shortly after daybreak. When I reachedthe pottery, I found George there before me, looking very pale, butquite himself, and setting the men to their work the same as usual. Isaid nothing about what had happened the day before. Something in hisface silenced me; but seeing him so steady and composed, I took heart,and began to hope he had fought through the worst of his trouble. By-and-by the Frenchman came through the yard, gay and off-hand, with hiscigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. George turnedsharply away into one of the workshops, and shut the door. I drew adeep breath of relief. My dread was to see them come to an openquarrel; and I felt that as long as they kept clear of that, all wouldbe well.

　　Thus the Monday went by, and the Tuesday; and still George kept alooffrom mc. I had sense enough not to be hurt by this. I felt he had agood right to be silent, if silence helped him to bear his trialbetter; and I made up my mind never to breathe another syllable on thesubject, unless he began.

　　Wednesday came. I had overslept myself that morning, and came to worka quarter after the hour, expecting to be fined; for George was verystrict as foreman of the yard, and treated friends and enemies justthe same. Instead of blaming me, however, he called me up, and said:

　　"Ben, whose turn is it this week to sit up?"

　　"Mine, sir," I replied. (I always called him "Sir" in working hours.)

　　"Well, then, you may go home to-day, and the same on Thursday andFriday; for there's a large batch of work for the ovens to-night, andthere'll be the same to-morrow night and the night after."

　　"All right, sir," said I. "Then I'll be here by seven this evening."

　　"No, half-past nine will be soon enough. I've some accounts to makeup, and I shall be here myself till then. Mind you are true to time,though."

　　"I'll be as true as the clock, sir," I replied, and was turning awaywhen he called me back again.

　　"You're a good lad, Ben," said he. "Shake hands."

　　I seized his hand, and pressed it warmly.

　　"If I'm good for anything, George," I answered with all my heart,"it's you who have made me so. God bless you for it!"

　　"Amen!" said he, in a troubled voice, putting his hand to his hat.

　　And so we parted.

　　In general, I went to bed by day when I was attending to the firing bynight; but this morning I had already slept longer than usual, andwanted exercise more than rest. So I ran home; put a bit of bread andmeat in my pocket; snatched up my big thorn stick; and started off fora long day in the country. When I came home, it was quite dark andbeginning to rain, just as it had begun to rain at about the same timethat wretched Sunday evening: so I changed my wet boots, had an earlysupper and a nap in the chimney-corner, and went down to the works ata few minutes before half-past nine. Arriving at the factory-gate, Ifound it ajar, and so walked in and closed it after me. I rememberthinking at the time that it was unlike George's usual caution toleave it so but it passed from my mind next moment. Having slipped inthe bolt, I then went straight over to George's little counting-house,where the gas was shining cheerfully in the window. Here also,somewhat to my surprise, I found the door open, and the room empty. Iwent in. The threshold and part of the floor was wetted by the drivingrain. The wages-book was open on the desk, George's pen stood in theink, and his hat hung on its usual peg in the corner. I concluded, ofcourse, that he had gone round to the ovens; so, following him, I tookdown his hat and carried it with me, for it was now raining fast.

　　The baking-houses lay just opposite, on the other side of the yard.There were three of them, opening one out of the other; and in each,the great furnace filled all the middle of the room.

　　These furnaces are, in fact, large kilns built of brick, with an ovenclosed in by an iron door in the centre of each, and a chimney goingup through the roof. The pottery, enclosed in seggars, stands roundinside on shelves, and has to be turned from time to time while thefiring is going on. To turn these seggars, test the heat, and keep thefires up, was my work at the period of which I am now telling you,Major.

　　Well! I went through the baking-houses one after the other, and foundall empty alike. Then a strange, vague, uneasy feeling came over me,and I began to wonder what could have become of George. It waspossible that he might be in one of the workshops; so I ran over tothe counting-house, lighted a lantern, and made a thorough survey ofthe yards. I tried the doors; they were all locked as usual. I peepedinto the open sheds; they were all vacant. I called "George! George!"in every part of the outer premises; but the wind and rain drove backmy voice, and no other voice replied to it. Forced at last to believethat he was really gone, I took his hat back to the counting-house,put away the wages-book, extinguished the gas, and prepared for mysolitary watch.

　　The night was mild, and the heat in the baking-rooms intense. I knew,by experience, that the ovens had been overheated, and that none ofthe porcelain must go in at least for the next two hours; so I carriedmy stool to the door, settled myself in a sheltered corner where theair could reach me, but not the rain, and fell to wondering whereGeorge could have gone, and why he should not have waited till thetime appointed. That he had left in haste was clear--not because hishat remained behind, for he might have had a cap with him--but becausehe had left the book open, and the gas lighted. Perhaps one of theworkmen had met with some accident, and he had been summoned away sourgently that he had no time to think of anything; perhaps he wouldeven now come back presently to see that all was right before he wenthome to his lodgings.

　　Turning these things over in my mind, I grew drowsy, my thoughtswandered, and I fell asleep.

　　I cannot tell how long my nap lasted. I had walked a great distancethat day, and I slept heavily; but I awoke all in a moment, with asort of terror upon me, and, looking up, saw George Barnard sitting ona stool before the oven door, with the firelight full upon his face.

　　Ashamed to be found sleeping, I started to my feet. At the sameinstant, he rose, turned away without even looking towards me, andwent out into the next room.

　　"Don't be angry, George!" I cried, following him. "None of the seggarsare in. I knew the fires were too strong, and--"

　　The words died on my lips. I had followed him from the first room tothe second, from the second to the third, and in the third--I losthim!

　　I could not believe my eyes. I opened the end door leading into theyard, and looked out; but he was nowhere in sight. I went round to theback of the baking-houses, looked behind the furnaces, ran over to thecounting-house, called him by his name over and over again; but allwas dark, silent, lonely, as ever.

　　Then I remembered how I had bolted the outer gate, and how impossibleit was that he should have come in without ringing. Then, too, I beganagain to doubt the evidence of my own senses, and to think I must havebeen dreaming.

　　I went back to my old post by the door of the first baking-house, andsat down for a moment to collect my thoughts.

　　"In the first place," said I to myself, "there is but one outer gate.That outer gate I bolted on the inside, and it is bolted still. In thenext place, I searched the premises, and found all the sheds empty,and the workshop-doors padlocked as usual on the outside. I provedthat George was nowhere about, when I came, and I know he could nothave come in since, without my knowledge. Therefore it is a dream. Itis certainly a dream, and there's an end of it."

　　And with this I trimmed my lantern and proceeded to test thetemperature of the furnaces. We used to do this, I should tell you, bythe introduction of little roughly-moulded lumps of common fire-clay.If the heat is too great, they crack; if too little, they remain dampand moist; if just right, they become firm and smooth all over, andpass into the biscuit stage. Well! I took my three little lumps ofclay, put one in each oven, waited while I counted five hundred, andthen went round again to see the results. The two first were incapital condition, the third had flown into a dozen pieces. Thisproved that the seggars might at once go into ovens One and Two, butthat number Three had been overheated, and must be allowed to go oncooling for an hour or two longer.

　　I therefore stocked One and Two with nine rows of seggars, three deepon each shelf; left the rest waiting till number Three was in acondition to be trusted; and, fearful of falling asleep again, nowthat the firing was in progress, walked up and down the rooms to keepmyself awake.

　　This was hot work, however, and I could not stand it very long; so Iwent back presently to my stool by the door, and fell to thinkingabout my dream. The more I thought of it, the more strangely real itseemed, and the more I felt convinced that I was actually on my feet,when I saw George get up and walk into the adjoining room. I was alsocertain that I had still continued to see him as he passed out of thesecond room into the third, and that at that time I was even followinghis very footsteps. Was it possible, I asked myself, that I could havebeen up and moving, and yet not quite awake? I had heard of peoplewalking in their sleep. Could it be that I was walking in mine, andnever waked till I reached the cool air of the yard? All this seemedlikely enough, so I dismissed the matter from my mind, and passed therest of the night in attending to the seggars, adding fresh fuel fromtime to time to the furnaces of the first and second ovens, and nowand then taking a turn through the yards. As for number Three, it keptup its heat to such a degree that it was almost day before I daredtrust the seggars to go in it.

　　Thus the hours went by; and at half-past seven on Thursday morning,the men came to their work. It was now my turn to go off duty, but Iwanted to see George before I left, and so waited for him in thecounting-house, while a lad named Steve Storr took my place at theovens. But the clock went on from half-past seven to a quarter toeight; then to eight o'clock; then to a quarter-past eight--and stillGeorge never made his appearance. At length, when the hand got roundto half-past eight, I grew weary of waiting, took up my hat, ran home,went to bed, and slept proloundly until past four in the afternoon.

　　That evening I went down to the factory quite early; for I had arestlessness upon me, and I wanted to sec George before he left forthe night. This time, I found the gate bolted, and I rang foradmittance.

　　"How early you are, Ben!" said Steve Storr, as he let me in.

　　"Mr. Barnard's not gone?" I asked, quickly; for I saw at the firstglance that the gas was out in the counting-house.

　　"He's not gone," said Steve, "because he's never been."

　　"Never been?"

　　"No and what's stranger still, he's not been home either, since dinneryesterday."

　　"But he was here last night."

　　"Oh yes, he was here last night, making up the books. John Parker waswith him till past six; and you found him here, didn't you, at half-past nine?"

　　I shook my head.

　　"Well, he's gone, anyhow. Good night!"

　　"Good night!"

　　I took the lantern from his hand, bolted him out mechanically, andmade my way to the baking-houses like one in a stupor. George gone?Gone without a word of warning to his employer, or of farewell to hisfellow-workmen? I could not understand it. I could not believe it. Isat down bewildered, incredulous, stunned. Then came hot tears,doubts, terrifying suspicions. I remembered the wild words he hadspoken a few nights back; the strange calm by which they werefollowed; my dream of the evening before. I had heard of men whodrowned themselves for love; and the turbid Severn ran close by--soclose, that one might pitch a stone into it from some of the workshopwindows.

　　These thoughts were too horrible. I dared not dwell upon them. Iturned to work, to free myself from them, if I could; and began byexamining the ovens. The temperature of all was much higher than onthe previous night, the heat having been gradually increased duringthe last twelve hours. It was now my business to keep the heat on theincrease for twelve more; after which it would be allowed, asgradually, to subside, until the pottery was cool enough for removal.To turn the seggars, and add fuel to the two first furnaces, was myfirst work. As before, I found number Three in advance of the others,and so left it for half an hour, or an hour. I then went round theyard; tried the doors; let the dog loose; and brought him back with meto the baking-houses, for company. After that, I set my lantern on ashelf beside the door, took a book from my pocket, and began to read.

　　I remember the title of the book as well as possible. It was calledBowlker's Art of Angling, and contained little rude cuts of all kindsof artificial flies, hooks, and other tackle. But I could not keep mymind to it for two minutes together; and at last I gave it up indespair, covered my face with my hands, and fell into a long absorbingpainful train of thought. A considerable time had gone by thus--maybean hour--when I was roused by a low whimpering howl from Captain, whowas lying at my feet. I looked up with a start, just as I had startedfrom sleep the night before, and with the same vague terror; and saw,exactly in the same place and in the same attitude, with the firelightfull upon him--George Barnard!

　　At this sight, a fear heavier than the fear of death fell upon me, andmy tongue seemed paralysed in my mouth. Then, just as last night, herose, or seemed to rise, and went slowly out into the next room. Apower stronger than myself appeared to compel me, reluctantly, tofollow him. I saw him pass through the second room--cross thethreshold of the third room--walk straight up to the oven--and therepause. He then turned, for the first time, with the glare of the redfirelight pouring out upon him from the open door of the furnace, andlooked at me, face to face. In the same instant, his whole frame andcountenance seemed to glow and become transparent, as if the fire wereall within him and around him--and in that glow he became, as it were,absorbed into the furnace, and disappeared I uttered a wild cry, triedto stagger from the room, and fell insensible before I reached thedoor.

　　When I next opened my eyes, the grey dawn was in the sky; the furnace-doors were all closed as I had left them when I last went round; thedog was quietly sleeping not far from my side; and the men wereringing at the gate, to be let in.

　　I told my tale from beginning to end, and was laughed at, as a matterof course, by all who heard it. When it was found, however, that mystatements never varied, and, above all, that George Barnard continuedabsent, some few began to talk it over seriously, and among those few,the master of the works. He forbade the furnace to be cleared out,called in the aid of a celebrated naturalist, and had the ashessubmitted to a scientific examination. The result was as follows:

　　The ashes were found to have been largely saturated with some kind offatty animal matter. A considerable portion of those ashes consistedof charred bone. A semi-circular piece of iron, which evidently hadonce been the heel of a workman's heavy boot, was found, half fused,at one corner of the furnace. Near it, a tibia bone, which stillretained sufficient of its original form and texture to renderidentification possible. This bone, however, was so much charred, thatit fell into powder on being handled.

　　After this, not many doubted that George Barnard had been foullymurdered, and that his body had been thrust into the furnace.Suspicion fell upon Louis Laroche. He was arrested, a coroner'sinquest was held, and every circumstance connected with the night ofthe murder was as thoroughly sifted and investigated as possible. Allthe sifting in the world, however, failed either to clear or tocondemn Louis Laroche. On the very night of his release, he left theplace by the mail-train, and was never seen or heard of there, again.As for Leah, I know not what became of her. I went away myself beforemany weeks were over, and never have set foot among the Potteries fromthat hour to this.