Mary Barton Page #33

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

								

clemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence
i' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and
gentlemen as yo think so much on?'

"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."

John ceased. After waiting a little to see if he would go on of
himself, Job said,

"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened when
yo got to th' Parliament House."

After a little pause John answered,

"If yo please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not
to be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but I canna
tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as
I live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as
I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll
not speak of it no [29] more."


   [Footnote 29: A similar use of a double negative is not
                 unfrequent in Chaucer; as in the "Miller's Tale":
                     "That of no wife toke he non offering
                     For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."]


So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.

Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good
they had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So after
awhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from
the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish
the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.

"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London
once?"

"No!" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased
respect.

"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought
about it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were
Margaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she
came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and
stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank
Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they
were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though I
went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. Howe'er,
she were my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for
fear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o' the time
when I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how
we'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together,
and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi'
telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o'
my eyes."

"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."

"Ay, so he were; and his father afore him. But work were rather slack
in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and
London wages, so he were to go there; and it were there Margaret was
to follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days.
She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly
behind their backs. They were married, and stayed some days wi' me
afore setting off; and I've often thought sin' Margaret's heart
failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken;
but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never
let on what I were feeling. I knew what she meant when she came
kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving
me. Well, they went at last. You know them two letters, Margaret?"

"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.

"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass.
She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And
Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters,
poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line
drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in
th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money,
thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an'
th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide comed Jennings wi' a
grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both
getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for
it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings
had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a
well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse
them. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o' her as
her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it
himsel; and she expecting her down-lying [30] every day. Well, t'
make a long story short, Old Jennings and I went up by that night's
coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London."


   [Footnote 30: "Down-lying," lying-in.]


"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary,
anxiously.

"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much
when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she
opened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they
were dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for
when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and
underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out
as if he'd been a woman.

"Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only
one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. I
disremember [31] rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet,
while my heart were crushed within me.


   [Footnote 31: "Disremember," forget.]


"Jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady
took him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat
there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.'
So I got up and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th'
stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where
Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over
his head for a night-cap. She said he'd cried himself fairly off
to sleep. There were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a
kind-hearted body. But she still said, 'Come here,' and took hold o'
my arm. So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by
th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift that up,' says she, and I
did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a
leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day.
'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it were. 'Yes,' said she. 'She
were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and
then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many
hours behind.'

"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to
comfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near
the babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and
yet I were afeared he would claim it. However, that were far enough
fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as I found out at
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