Mary Barton Page #30

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

								

tear-swollen face.

"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him;
it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you."

"For him, indeed!" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.

"Ay, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if your heart would break
now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose
not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom
you love; 'How much, Mary?' 'This much,' as the children say"
(opening her arms very wide).

"Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; "I often think I don't love him at
all."

"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?" asked Sally.

"If you like," replied Mary. "I'm sure I don't care for that or any
thing else now;" weeping afresh.

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw she
had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full to
value either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused
in their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had
heretofore used,

"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never could
abide to see you cry."

"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary, fixing
her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her
apron as she sobbed anew.

"Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow,
as the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much;
there's better folk than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid as
was his sister alive yet?"

"I don't know who you mean," said Mary, sharply; for she did know,
and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.

"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then;
will that please you? I haven't seen her hereabouts lately."

"No, she's left living here. When the twins died she thought she
could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and
Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to
her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and
went to live with them."

"Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for
her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee."

"She wasn't a Methodee, she was Church o' England."

"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You know what I meant.
Look, who is this letter from?" holding up Henry Carson's letter.

"I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red.

"My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care."

"Well, give it me," said Mary, impatiently, and anxious in her
present mood for her visitor's departure.

Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure of
seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to
say the writer was not indifferent to her.

"You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at
last. "I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I
won't."

"But, Mary, he does so look for you. You'd be quite sorry for him,
he's so put out about not seeing you. Besides you go when your
father's at home, without letting on [26] to him, and what harm would
there be in going now?"


   [Footnote 26: "Letting on," informing. In Anglo-Saxon, one
                 meaning of "lætan" was "to admit;" and we say,
                 to let out a secret.]


"Well, Sally! you know my answer, I won't; and I won't."

"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o'
sending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with."

Mary flashed up.

"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the
neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that."

"Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had
a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame
of?"

"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."

And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job Legh
to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain fire-light you
could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind
person.

"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally. "And that's your last word?"

"Yes, yes; good-night." She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome
visitor--unwelcome at that time at least.

"Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"

"Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately.
Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's
no terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it's very hard. Poor
George! he were such a hearty looking man."

"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend,
"thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? Is it wi' crying? Your eyes
are so swollen and red."

"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was last
night?"

"No; where?"

"Look here." She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened her
large gray eyes with astonishment.

"I'll tell you all how and about it. You see there's a gentleman
lecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his
songs. Well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't
make a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good
word for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think I was
frightened, but I thought now or never, and said I'd do my best. So I
tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me
I were to make myself decent and be there by seven."

"And what did you put on?" asked Mary. "Oh, why didn't you come in
for my pretty pink gingham?"

"I did think on't; but you had na come home then. No! I put on my
merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my
hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, I
went at seven. I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th' paper
in wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers. Th' folks' heads
danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going to
play at ball wi' 'em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine
weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice,
telling me to take courage. So to make a long story short, when it
were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how
there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and
stamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o' shoes
they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). So
I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign last night,
and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th'
Mechanics'."

"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it."

"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet. Now that a way
seemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did
please God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather. I only
telled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I
thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning
I telled him all."
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