Mary Barton Page #15

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

								


"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often
wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it
costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if
what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a
friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,
one's glad enough to get shut [8] on him. I cannot see what good
comes out o' wearing mourning."


   [Footnote 8: "Shut," quit.]


"I'll tell you what I think th' fancy was sent for (Old Alice calls
every thing 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,
though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people
(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to
any thing but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they
were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in
his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up
wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than
usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and
I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a
purpose."

"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice
wouldn't."

"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret
much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and
fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in
her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said
one day when she found me taking on about something?"

"No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?"

"I can't tell you just now; perhaps I may sometime."

"When?"

"Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never.
It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and
sometimes I don't like to think on any thing else. Well, I was
fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds
me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so
she says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret
and be low about any thing, "An anxious mind is never a holy mind."'
Oh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin' [9] she said
that."


   [Footnote 9: "Sin'," since. "Sin that his lord was twenty
                yere of age." Prologue to Canterbury Tales.]


The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little
while, till Mary inquired,

"Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?"

"Why I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice,
and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as
my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet
they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing
mourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for, it does
so hurt the eyes."

Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she
assumed a cheerful tone, and said,

"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of
my tongue. Mary! do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little
blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help
me, Lord help me!"

She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving
to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person,
striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than
helping her to meet and overcome the evil.

"No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "I know
I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever
thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor;
and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened
room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years
longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather
would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will
grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and
besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what
I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day
there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little
enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather!
and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him
such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say
something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only weakness,' and
gived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three bottles (and each of
'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so
much, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary," continued she,
shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with
the edges dancing and sparkling."

"And can you see pretty well with th' other?"

"Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if
I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right
where I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want
to see. I've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the
same story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain
work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, I
were tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I'm suffering
from it."

"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd
call foolish in another."

"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I
should go blind any way, and I darn't tell grandfather, else I would
leave it off, but he will so fret."

Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.

"Oh Mary!" she said, "I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare
at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I
can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a
bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the
singing weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and said
how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says
I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra'
him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He's led th' chorusses at
the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one
foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th'
hand before the Oud Church [10] full o' people. He says I may gain
ever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate it's sad
work, being blind."


   [Footnote 10: "Old Church;" now the Cathedral of Manchester.]


She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some
time they sewed on in silence.

Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person
after person ran past the curtained window.

"Something's up," said Mary. She went to the door and stopping the
first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion.

"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing
away like fun;" and away her informant ran.
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