Mary Barton Page #2

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

								

be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,
carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even
three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus
far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May
afternoon together.

Sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with
friendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough
specimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself
bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was
below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted
look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that
in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent
upon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly
marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme
earnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent,
stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominated
over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger
would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would
be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, without
exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face
was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She
had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat
of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise
characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the
natives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in
pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical
nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and
less sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed
hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was
far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly
carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking
woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,
feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.

The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look
of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with
you?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther, yet?"
Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and
plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only
fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.

"Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. My
Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.
Wilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. "Sit
you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're
neither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. Stay," he added, with
some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under
you, to save the gowns women always think so much of; and now, Mrs.
Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him, while you talk and
comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther."

   [Footnote 1: "Nesh;" Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.]

These arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on the
blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each
carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as Barton
had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an
expression of gloom.

"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson.

"No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with
somebody. My wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, but
I tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown
themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the
last time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came down
stairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her
bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of
thinking herself."

"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on."

"Ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,
with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work
in Manchester, has quite a different look with them to us Manchester
folk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy
cheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like
black), as my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women
for sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was
Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit was
always up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my
wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than
Esther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her."


   [Footnote 2: "Farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.]


"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.

"That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They can earn so much
when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. My
Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You see
Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face;
and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my
mind: my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I
loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I see
what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,
and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be a
street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think I'll have you
darken my door, though my wife is your sister.' So says she, 'Don't
trouble yourself, John. I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never
stay to hear myself called as you call me.' She flushed up like a
turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when
she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), she went
and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we
talked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough,
and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at the
time I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much
better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now
and then."

"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and
said you'd never speak to her again."

"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Barton,
testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off living
with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last Sunday, she
came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the last time we
set eyes on her."

"Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson.

"Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she was
a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing,
and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in, toward four o'clock,
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