Mary Barton Page #5

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

								

off), "you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind
you get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, Mary."

"No, it's not all," said her husband. "Thou must get sixpennyworth of
rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'Grapes.' And thou just
go to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner,
under 14, Barber Street" (this was addressed to his wife), "and tell
her to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother,
I'll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins."

"If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but
half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said Mrs. Barton.

"Pooh! pooh! Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely."

But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her
tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing any
thing with Jem.

Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in
the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in
addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly
occupation as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of
hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable
occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and
meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had
returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a
candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in
her cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness: in one corner
stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the
whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one
should have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean,
although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never
dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street,
down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside
shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch,
and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but
which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are
consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung,
and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour
in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging
shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice's were
kept. Her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece,
where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard
contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of
oatmeal, her frying pan, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which
served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes
of broth which Alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a sick
neighbour.

After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to
light her fire with the damp coals, and half green sticks, when Mary
knocked.

"Come in," said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the
door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to
come in.

"Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from her
candle streamed on the girl's face. "How you are grown since I used
to see you at my brother's! Come in, lass, come in."

"Please," said Mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come
to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is
with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you're to make haste, please."

"I'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I'll
come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles
for spring drink? If she hasn't I'll take her some."

"No, I don't think she has."

Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen,
fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the
money-spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business,
returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one
hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white
smoke-flavoured Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.

She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles,
put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore
manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his
houseplace present, after her humble cellar. She did not think of
comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire,
the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the
savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the
hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut
the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and
surprised greeting of her brother.

And now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson
in the post of honour, the rocking chair on the right hand side
of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite
arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in
milk.

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the
tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able
to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious
look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very
comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem
stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly
to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being
a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not
so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton
vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback
being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and
contracted as if in pain.

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and
saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings
were hungry, and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence;
holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she
said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains
never."

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every
one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down
her food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. Alice could
have bitten her tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said
and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every
one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.
Barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears
fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and children, set
off early home, not before (in spite of mal-à-propos speeches) they
had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and
not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and declared
that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just
such another evening.

"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice; and
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