Mary Barton Page #44

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

								


"Oh, please, Sally," struggling, "dear Sally! don't let him come
here, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears;
he'll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I don't love him--I never
did. Oh, let me go," as footsteps approached; and then, as they
passed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued,
"Do, Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I don't love him, and that I
don't want to have any thing more to do with him. It was very wrong,
I dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I'm very sorry, if
I've led him to think too much of me; and I don't want him to think
any more. Will you tell him this, Sally? and I'll do any thing for
you if you will."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sally, in a more relenting mood,
"I'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, I
should say, where I told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till
I seed if your father was at home; and if I didn't come back in that
time, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd see
you."

"Oh, let us go, let us go," said Mary, feeling that the interview
must be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father
might return at any minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was at
the end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to
turn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally,
who came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary's, with a kind of
decided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing her
mind, and turning back. But this, under the circumstances, was quite
different to Mary's plan. She had wondered more than once if she must
not have another interview with Mr. Carson; and had then determined,
while she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one,
to tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given him
false hopes. For be it remembered, she had the innocence, or the
ignorance, to believe his intentions honourable; and he, feeling
that at any price he must have her, only that he would obtain her as
cheaply as he could, had never undeceived her; while Sally Leadbitter
laughed in her sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all
end,--whether Mary would gain her point of marriage, with her sly
affectation of believing such to be Mr. Carson's intention in
courting her.

Not very far from the end of the street, into which the court where
Mary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his hat a good deal slouched
over his face as if afraid of being recognised. He turned when he saw
them coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although they
were close behind) to a street of half-finished houses.

The length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the interview
which was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with
it had failed, there was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, which
she could not evade without an absolute struggle.

At last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden
fence, put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the
foot-pavement. Inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were
standing by him; Mary now returning Sally's detaining grasp with
interest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness,
willing or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally's
curiosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary's hold.

With more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. Carson put his
arm firmly round Mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance.

"Nay, nay! you little witch! Now I have caught you, I shall keep you
prisoner. Tell me now what has made you run away from me so fast
these few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!"

Mary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to
him, while she spoke out calmly and boldly,

"Mr. Carson! I want to speak to you for once and for all. Since I met
you last Monday evening, I have made up my mind to have nothing more
to do with you. I know I've been wrong in leading you to think I
liked you; but I believe I didn't rightly know my own mind; and I
humbly beg your pardon, sir, if I've led you to think too much of
me."

For an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his
aid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. He, young,
agreeable, rich, handsome! No! she was only showing a little womanly
fondness for coquetting.

"You're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'Humbly begging
my pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' As if you didn't
know I think of you from morning to night. But you want to be told it
again and again, do you?"

"No, indeed, sir, I don't. I would far liefer [40] that you should
say you will never think of me again, than that you should speak of
me in this way. For indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest than I
am, when I say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you."


   [Footnote 40: "Liefer," rather.
                 "Yet had I levre unwist for sorrow die."
                 Chaucer; "Troilus and Creseide."]


"Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. Ha,
Mary! I've caught you, have I?" as she, puzzled by his perseverance
in thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her
meaning.

"I mean, sir," she said, sharply, "that I will never speak to you
again at any time, after to-night."

"And what's made this change, Mary?" said he, seriously enough now.
"Have I done any thing to offend you?" added he, earnestly.

"No, sir," she answered gently, but yet firmly. "I cannot tell you
exactly why I've changed my mind; but I shall not alter it again; and
as I said before, I beg your pardon if I've done wrong by you. And
now, sir, if you please, good night."

"But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I done, Mary? Tell
me. You must not go without telling me how I have vexed you. What
would you have me do?"

"Nothing, sir! but (in an agitated tone) oh! let me go! You cannot
change my mind; it's quite made up. Oh, sir! why do you hold me so
tight? If you will know why I won't have any thing more to do
with you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I really
cannot."

This naive and candid avowal served her but little. He could not
understand how it could be true. Some reason lurked behind. He was
passionately in love. What should he do to tempt her? A thought
struck him.

"Listen! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have heard me. I
do love you dearly; and I won't believe but what you love me a very
little, just a very little. Well, if you don't like to own it, never
mind! I only want now to tell you how much I love you, by what I am
ready to give up for you. You know (or perhaps you are not fully
aware) how little my father and mother would like me to marry you.
So angry would they be, and so much ridicule should I have to brave,
that of course I have never thought of it till now. I thought we
could be happy enough without marriage." (Deep sank those words into
Mary's heart.) "But now, if you like, I'll get a licence to-morrow
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