Mary Barton Page #14

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

								

would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up
thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the
present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was
enough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love.

He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was
enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he
would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.

But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger
for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep
before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a
long working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.

An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,
and stepping gently up he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.

She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "For
shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?"

Lightly said, lightly answered.

"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed.
But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary
care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an
answer by night, and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him
Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,
and on, ever more fondly.

Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings
for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking
Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,
too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however
distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his
father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then
admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse when her time came,
than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son
to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when Mary
was not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and
too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called "spunk" in
him.

It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black
frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since
swept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise
like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold
force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and every
thing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with
a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy
appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks
of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to
be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying
to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the
ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long
continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would
be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing
purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was no end to
the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.

Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss
Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent
as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive
Margaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the
court.

"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?"

"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). I've
a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for
the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and
will not be home till late."

"Oh, how charming it will be. I'll help you if you're backward. Have
you much to do?"

"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls
beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff
(for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above
a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till
candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the
bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep
from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm
sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit
of her gown. They weren't to be misfits I promise you, though they
were in such trouble."

"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and I'll sit down
and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing
to-night at Miss Simmonds'."

By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her
candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the
table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things
were then lifted en masse to the dresser; and dusting her side of
the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some
breadths and began to run them together.

"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?"

"Why for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.
Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and
his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now
he's dead."

"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture
of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."

"No, I'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young
children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."

"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own
gowns," observed Mary.

"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy
getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,
well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told
me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it
comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a smell
of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it
seemed more like a wedding nor [7] a funeral. They said she'd spend a
matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."


   [Footnote 7: "Nor," generally used in Lancashire for "than."
                "They had lever sleep nor be in
                laundery."--Dunbar.]


"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.

"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her
husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th'
undertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual,
and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body
has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I
dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's
gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff
and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand
funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many
a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all."
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