Mary Barton Page #21

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

								



   [Footnote 17: "And thay soupe the brothe thereof."--Sir J.
                 Mandeville.]


"God's blessing be on you!"

She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson covered
her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly
for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread,
for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only she
roused to pull the coat round her little child.

And now all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to
restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he
yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and
swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who
did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed
exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire,
and talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for chairs
there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down.
They put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light.

"Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.

"Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and
were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,
somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd gotten a letter he sent his
missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. It did
my heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;
it seemed hard to be spunging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat
money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo
know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled
ye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a
nod) brought me Ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. It were
as good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being
our Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends."

"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too? I'd be loath to have 'em
for brothers."

"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good
or better nor us."

"If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, and we're
poor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be done by for
us?"

But Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it.
So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on.

"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [18] getten capital
an' we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital and we ought
to draw interest on that. They get interest on their capital somehow
a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live
as they do? Besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi';
there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another, as
comed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all,
and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of
our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty
year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to
our labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;
whatten better are we? They'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in
order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big
houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. Can you
say there's nought wrong in this?"


   [Footnote 18: "They'n," contraction of "they han," they have.]


"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to me after
th' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful
in my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye;' so yo see th'
masters suffer too."

"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked
Barton, in a low, deep voice.

"I donnot mean," continued he, "to say as I'm so badly off. I'd
scorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport there
dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten
Mary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. I think we'll ha' to give up
house-keeping; but that I donnot mind."

And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching,
wore away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the
same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept
on, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to
have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her.
The watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would
be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an
Infirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated even into the
dark cellar. Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until
Wilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and
reviving, even in that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to
Mr. Carson's.

Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's
house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet
bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters,
although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for
the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade
was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on
their day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr.
Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense.
But in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown,
and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned
his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown
open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop
and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he
hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with
preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily,
told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was
there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering
tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of
utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself
by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door
man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson; the cook
broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.

The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so
mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break
his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the
servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat
and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not
feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So
Wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making
the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.

"How late you were last night, Thomas!"

"Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms
by twelve; and there I was. But it was two o'clock before they called
me."
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