Mary Barton Page #26

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

								

place to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm
always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I
think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright
cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and
tender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another;
and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem's face
best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it. Well,
when I'm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in
Jem's way. But will he thank me for it? He's rather savage at times,
that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when I'm another's,
will only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself wi' thinking
any more about him, that I won't."

So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was
often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from
church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up
her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day
court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should
have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every
day,--and all day long if he liked.

Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young
Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass
without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he
had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making
some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely,
though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He
was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her,
and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance,
and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something
of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very
bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked
up from the romances which Miss Simmonds' young ladies were in the
habit of recommending to each other.

Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less
because he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven, infused years
ago by her aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps
all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.
Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards, that
we all, in our old-Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So
Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and
doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a
comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day
when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her
gowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure
to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carsons,
acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on
foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with
them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest,
that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were
those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with
care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would
surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was
to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very
pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who had shown
her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold.

Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary
indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many
tears.

Meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their
hold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him when
he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of her
mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his
brothers.




CHAPTER VIII.

MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.


   "Deal gently with them, they have much endured.
   Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
   Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
   Perchance, in the rough school of stern experience,
   They've something learned which Theory does not teach;
   Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
   And let their error but the stronger plead
   'Give us the light and guidance that we need!'"

   LOVE THOUGHTS.


One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night,
Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John
Barton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while
his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark
black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household
looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet
Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's
notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.

It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him
some minutes before he came into her father's house. She was sitting
at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one
side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals
of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched
all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence,
the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own
face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes
for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire,
while he read an old "Northern Star," borrowed from a neighbouring
public-house.

Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love,
by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy
adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not
help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt
that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while
Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.

She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently,
and not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard
all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At
last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed
her, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken
a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful
sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers!
He did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy
bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early
spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were
the gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John
Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk,
and answer him as best he might.

"There's the right stuff in this here 'Star,' and no mistake. Such a
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes