Mary Barton Page #3

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

								

when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet
up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. I
remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low
stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way.
She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like
a child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially
as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, and
pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist, and--"

"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up into
as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's
stock than thine," interrupted Wilson.

"Well, well, I call her 'little,' because her mother's name is Mary.
But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and,
'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day
and made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to my
girl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's
head I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by the
sweat of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though
she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,
worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all
afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any
one of God's creatures but herself.'"

"Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said Wilson, half amused at
his friend's vehemence.

"And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?" asked
Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he
continued, "If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies
dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want
of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the
wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks
in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east
wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed,
and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich
man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion
wasn't a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her)
stands fretting, as I know she will fret," and here his voice
faltered a little, "will a rich lady come and take her to her own
home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do?
No, I tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things
for the poor. Don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the
rich know nothing of the trials of the poor. I say, if they don't
know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work;
we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet we are
to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as
Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was
best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that
had no mirth in it.

"Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but what
I want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?"

"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,
kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her
little), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of
manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on
Wednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and
presently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to
talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us,
and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday
night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her
back, as I said before), and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself
about the big box, but bring it when she had time. So of course she
thought she should find Esther with us; and when she told her story,
my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary
ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much about my
wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the next day I
asked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's), and they'd
none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went to a policeman,
a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never spoke to before
because of his livery, and I asks him if his 'cuteness could find any
thing out for us. So I believe he asks other policemen; and one on
'em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, with a
bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and
get into a hackney coach, near Hulme Church, and we don't know th'
number, and can't trace it no further. I'm sorry enough for the girl,
for bad's come over her, one way or another, but I'm sorrier for my
wife. She loved her next to me and Mary, and she's never been the
same body since poor Tom's death. However, let's go back to them;
your old woman may have done her good."

As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a wish
that they still were the near neighbours they once had been.

"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street,
and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes,
to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's
brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none
more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may
have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the
street but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up too, though
may be she's to be at her work by six next morning."

"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was Barton's
reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer, and
mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm
at work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,
there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,
among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lassie
of thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her
father, in a manner which showed that the stern-looking man had a
tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile while
Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when
an over-grown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming,
"For old acquaintance sake, Mary."

"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing
rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The
tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the
aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by
eighteen years of his little brothers.

"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take
a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired."

Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's
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