Mary Barton Page #53

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

								


Yes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart could testify!

"Well, there's something to do for her; I forget what; wait a
minute! She is so like my little girl;" said she, raising her eyes,
glistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of Jem's
countenance.

He deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind to the
subject of Mary, and the lover above her in rank, and the service to
be done for her sake. But he controlled himself to silence. After
awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice.

"When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay in Chester after her
death), I found you all out very soon. And yet I never thought my
poor sister was dead. I suppose I would not think so. I used to watch
about the court where John lived, for many and many a night, and
gather all I could about them from the neighbours' talk; for I never
asked a question. I put this and that together, and followed one, and
listened to the other; many's the time I've watched the policeman off
his beat, and peeped through the chink of the window-shutter to see
the old room, and sometimes Mary or her father sitting up late for
some reason or another. I found out Mary went to learn dress-making,
and I began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life for a girl
to be out late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of
weary work, they're ready to follow after any novelty that makes a
little change. But I made up my mind, that bad as I was, I could
watch over Mary and perhaps keep her from harm. So I used to wait
for her at nights, and follow her home, often when she little knew
any one was near her. There was one of her companions I never could
abide, and I'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief.
By-and-bye, Mary's walks homewards were not alone. She was joined
soon after she came out, by a man; a gentleman. I began to fear
for her, for I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his
attentions; and I thought worse of him for having such long talks
with that bold girl I told you of. But I was laid up for a long time
with spitting of blood; and could do nothing. I'm sure it made me
worse, thinking about what might be happening to Mary. And when I
came out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him
than ever; and oh Jem! her father won't listen to me, and it's you
must save Mary! You're like a brother to her, and maybe could give
her advice and watch over her, and at any rate John will hearken to
you; only he's so stern and so cruel." She began to cry a little at
the remembrance of his harsh words; but Jem cut her short by his
hoarse, stern inquiry,

"Who is this spark that Mary loves? Tell me his name!"

"It's young Carson, old Carson's son, that your father worked for."

There was a pause. She broke the silence.

"Oh! Jem, I charge you with the care of her! I suppose it would be
murder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than to
live to lead such a life as I do. Do you hear me, Jem?"

"Yes! I hear you. It would be better. Better we were all dead." This
was said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed his tone,
and continued,

"Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary. That I have
determined on. And now listen to me! you loathe the life you lead,
else you would not speak of it as you do. Come home with me. Come to
my mother. She and my aunt Alice live together. I will see that they
give you a welcome. And to-morrow I will see if some honest way of
living cannot be found for you. Come home with me."

She was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point.
Then she said,

"God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just spoken. Some years
ago you might have saved me, as I hope and trust you will yet save
Mary. But it is too late now;--too late," she added, with accents of
deep despair.

Still he did not relax his hold. "Come home," he said.

"I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I would.
I should only disgrace you. If you will know all," said she, as he
still seemed inclined to urge her, "I must have drink. Such as live
like me could not bear life if they did not drink. It's the only
thing to keep us from suicide. If we did not drink, we could not
stand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we
are, for a day. If I go without food, and without shelter, I must
have my dram. Oh! you don't know the awful nights I have had in
prison for want of it!" said she, shuddering, and glaring round with
terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with
dim form, near her.

"It is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of wildness,
although so low spoken. "There they go round and round my bed the
whole night through. My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder how
they got together) and Mary--and all looking at me with their sad,
stony eyes; oh Jem! it is so terrible! They don't turn back either,
but pass behind the head of the bed, and I feel their eyes on me
everywhere. If I creep under the clothes I still see them; and what
is worse," hissing out her words with fright, "they see me. Don't
speak to me of leading a better life--I must have drink. I cannot
pass to-night without a dram; I dare not."

Jem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh! could he, then, do nothing for
her! She spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it was
thrillingly earnest.

"You are grieved for me! I know it better than if you told me in
words. But you can do nothing for me. I am past hope. You can yet
save Mary. You must. She is innocent, except for the great error of
loving one above her in station. Jem! you will save her?"

With heart and soul, though in few words, Jem promised that if aught
earthly could keep her from falling, he would do it. Then she blessed
him, and bade him good-night.

"Stay a minute," said he, as she was on the point of departure. "I
may want to speak to you again. I mun know where to find you--where
do you live?"

She laughed strangely. "And do you think one sunk so low as I am has
a home? Decent, good people have homes. We have none. No, if you want
me, come at night, and look at the corners of the streets about here.
The colder, the bleaker, the more stormy the night, the more certain
you will be to find me. For then," she added, with a plaintive fall
in her voice, "it is so cold sleeping in entries, and on door-steps,
and I want a dram more than ever."

Again she rapidly turned off, and Jem also went on his way. But
before he reached the end of the street, even in the midst of the
jealous anguish that filled his heart, his conscience smote him.
He had not done enough to save her. One more effort, and she might
have come. Nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by her
yielding. He turned back, but she was gone. In the tumult of his
other feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the time. But many
and many a day afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission of duty;
his weariness of well-doing.

Now, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. Mary loved
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes