Mary Barton Page #13

Mary Barton: A Tale of Manchester Life is the first novel by English author Elizabeth Gaskell, published in 1848. The story is set in the English city of Manchester between 1839 and 1842, and deals with the difficulties faced by the Victorian working class.

• Novel

								

Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick
up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing
or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap
with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says
grandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it up,
and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even
in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How did
ye catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing I'm
thinking?' And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship
he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold
had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did
not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the
scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were
folks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives
him a shilling."

"Two shilling," interrupted Job Legh, "and a good bargain it was."

"Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle
out of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and
grandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he
shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for
I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing, and stooped down over
him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to
read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species,
how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people
who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening
hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature,
though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed
to give a jerk, and before I could speak, it gave another, and in
a minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad
dog."

"What did you do?" asked Mary.

"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd
been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come
up by me, but he did not hearken to me."

"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I should
like to know?"

"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right
over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it
in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round
the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to
injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and
peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'll never
drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room.
Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose,
and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped
him into the boiling water."

"And did that kill him?" said Mary.

"Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked
though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again. I ran to the
public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and
then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and
dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth."

"What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary.

"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead
asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round."

"I'm glad father does not care for such things," said Mary.

"Are you! Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of
his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good
to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in
search of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone
back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till
I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long
as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter?
Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has
to say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!"

Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret
did not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager
in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leave-taking,
and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the
acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life.
Margaret, so quiet, so common place, until her singing powers were
called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home;
and her grandfather so very different to any one Mary had ever seen.
Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know
whether to believe her.

To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her
father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see
and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where
inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked
upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her
work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with
her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and
just step round the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk
if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls
wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready
to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.

I do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the
one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to
each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong
common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is
valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power
of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can
tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is
"wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties
in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their
admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and
often without knowing it.

So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told
many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one.
Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all.
There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It
concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant,
handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him
every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried
to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think
of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy
weakness work thee.

She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company,
but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing,
but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he
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