Mary Barton Page #25

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

								

husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again
Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. The father
and mother carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little brother
lay in calm repose.

Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some
time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying,

"It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home."

"Where is he?" asked Mary.

"Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a large order fra'
forrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun work, though his heart's
well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies."

Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.

"I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene'er I plan
over-much, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would
ha' me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as
full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard
how I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from
behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after
awhile, she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some
cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be
to ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n
getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many
a winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come
summer, I'd bid George and his wife good bye, and go home at last.
Little did I think how God Almighty would baulk me, for not leaving
my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto.
Here's George out o' work, and more cast down than ever I seed him;
wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy
stroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points very clear to
my fit abiding place; and I'm sure if George and Jane can say 'His
will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to do."

So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she
could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on
the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans
and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.

Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this
way when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and
dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle,
in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another
time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he
went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They
had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away
through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief
that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour
allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now
puffed out his jacket-pocket.

He would make his aunt speak; he would not understand her shakes of
the head and fast coursing tears.

"They're both gone," said she.

"Dead!"

"Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe went first,
as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like."

"Both!"

"Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or He
would na ha' made choice o' them. Ye may rest sure o' that."

Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket
the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last
his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were
frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering
grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within her
as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the
corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her
hand softly on his arm, said,

"Oh, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."

Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she
had of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy
by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft
hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was
whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes! it might be very wrong; he
could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding
him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.

"Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his
silence was only another form of grief.

He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yet
trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a
revulsion in her mood,

"Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this
minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such
trouble, for all my life that's past and gone. And, Mary (as she
tried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed."

She did know--he was right there. But as he turned to catch a look at
her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost
amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost
repugnance.

He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.

"Fool that I was--nay, wretch that I was--to let myself take this
time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she turns
away from such a selfish beast."

Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural
desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the
utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up-stairs to the chamber of
death.

Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed
through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem
again. He remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed Mary
that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and
quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour. So
leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating
whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding
that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning
light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.

            "They had
   Another morn than ours."

Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or
the broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether
it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of
sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but what she
had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he
had not put it so plainly.

"Oh dear," said she to herself, "I wish he would not mistake me so; I
never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens
and his cheek flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and George
Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since we
were quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must
always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must
go meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's
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