Mary Barton Page #31

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

								


"And how did he take it?"

"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like."

"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled
me."

"Ay, that's it! If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day,
you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day."

"Well, but what did your grandfather say?"

"Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loath to tell
yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it
strange. He were taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!' Then he
began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while I
telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd been;
and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's will; and
how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were talking, I
saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course I never
let on that I saw 'em. Dear grandfather! and all day long he's been
quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me
up, and putting things in my way, as he thought I might want; never
knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks I'm
out and out blind, I guess--as I shall be soon."

Margaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass
without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely
fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her
friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how
successful it had been.

"Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous,
may be, as that grand lady fra' London, as we seed one night driving
up to th' concert room door in her carriage."

"It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile. "And be sure,
Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that
comes about. Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen
I may make thee my lady's maid! Wouldn't that be nice? So I'll e'en
sing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs,

   'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,
   An' siller hae to spare.'"

"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for
somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald mair."

"Well, though I'm a bit tir'd, I don't care if I do. Before I come,
I were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to
sing o' Thursday. Th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit
me, and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to
disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. Eh! Mary,
what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and
rating i' th' world! It would go a vast deal further. Beside, some o'
th' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own,
because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious
I should give it th' proper expression. And that makes me care still
more. Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but
joyously!' I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but I'll try.

   'What a single word can do!
   Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
   Calling forth fond memories,
   Raining round hope's melodies,
   Steeping all in one bright hue--
   What a single word can do!'

Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like. I feel
as if I could do that better than t'other.

   'What a single word can do!
   Making life seem all untrue,
   Driving joy and hope away,
   Leaving not one cheering ray
   Blighting every flower that grew--
   What a single word can do!'"

Margaret certainly made the most of this little song. As a factory
worker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet [27] fine!"
And if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she
put into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please,
if he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.


   [Footnote 27: "Reet," right; often used for "very."]


When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done
what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain
have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "For certain,
th' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it."




CHAPTER IX.

BARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.


   "A life of self-indulgence is for us,
     A life of self-denial is for them;
   For us the streets, broad-built and populous,
     For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
     And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
   For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
     For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!
   Not doomed by us to this appointed pain--
   God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?"

   MRS. NORTON'S "CHILD OF THE ISLANDS."


The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the
rain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas! there
are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;
the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were
wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept
within-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the
little paved courts.

Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly
settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. The
noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open
it. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!

Drenched and way-worn, there he stood! He came in with no word to
Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat down by
the fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let him so
rest. She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went
into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while
he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could,
though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.

For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk
was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such
and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered
interlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the
political news of the day: that Parliament had refused to listen to
the working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their
rough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was
riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people; which
was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the
land.

When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some
time; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet
durst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in
our hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in
our own way, and our own time.

Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and
stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she
"caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.
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