Mary Barton Page #54

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

								

another! Oh! how should he bear it? He had thought her rejection of
him a hard trial, but that was nothing now. He only remembered it,
to be thankful he had not yielded to the temptation of trying his
fate again, not in actual words, but in a meeting, where her manner
should tell far more than words, that her sweeter smiles, her dainty
movements, her pretty household ways, were all to be reserved to
gladden another's eyes and heart. And he must live on; that seemed
the strangest. That a long life (and he knew men did live long, even
with deep, biting sorrow corroding at their hearts) must be spent
without Mary; nay, with the consciousness she was another's! That
hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his own room, the
dead stillness of night. He was on the threshold of home now.

He entered. There were the usual faces, the usual sights. He loathed
them, and then he cursed himself because he loathed them. His
mother's love had taken a cross turn, because he had kept the
tempting supper she had prepared for him waiting until it was
nearly spoilt. Alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day, sat
mutely near the fire; her happiness, bounded by the circle of the
consciousness of the presence of her foster child, knowing that his
voice repeated what was passing to her deafened ear, that his arm
removed each little obstacle to her tottering steps. And Will, out
of the very kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily than
ever. He saw Jem was downcast, and fancied his rattling might cheer
him; at any rate, it drowned his aunt's muttered grumblings, and in
some measure concealed the blank of the evening. At last, bed-time
came; and Will withdrew to his neighbouring lodging; and Jane and
Alice Wilson had raked the fire, and fastened doors and shutters,
and pattered up stairs, with their tottering foot-steps, and shrill
voices. Jem, too, went to the closet termed his bed-room. There was
no bolt to the door; but by one strong effort of his right arm, a
heavy chest was moved against it, and he could sit down on the side
of his bed, and think.

Mary loved another! That idea would rise uppermost in his mind, and
had to be combated in all its forms of pain. It was, perhaps, no
great wonder that she should prefer one so much above Jem in the
external things of life. But the gentleman; why did he, with his
range of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop down
to carry off the poor man's darling? With all the glories of the
garden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--Jem's
own fragrant wild-rose?

His own! Oh! never now his own!--Gone for evermore!

Then uprose the guilty longing for blood!--The frenzy of
jealousy!--Some one should die. He would rather Mary were dead, cold
in her grave, than that she were another's. A vision of her pale,
sweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore, seemed to
float constantly before his aching eyes. But hers were ever open,
and contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mute reproach! What
had she done to deserve such cruel treatment from him? She had been
wooed by one whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay, and bright, and she
had given him her love. That was all! It was the wooer who should
die. Yes, die, knowing the cause of his death. Jem pictured him (and
gloated on the picture), lying smitten, yet conscious; and listening
to the upbraiding accusation of his murderer. How he had left his own
rank, and dared to love a maiden of low degree; and--oh! stinging
agony of all--how she, in return, had loved him! Then the other
nature spoke up, and bade him remember the anguish he should so
prepare for Mary! At first he refused to listen to that better voice;
or listened only to pervert. He would glory in her wailing grief! he
would take pleasure in her desolation of heart!

No! he could not, said the still small voice. It would be worse, far
worse, to have caused such woe, than it was now to bear his present
heavy burden.

But it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. He would
slay himself, and the lovers should love on, and the sun shine
bright, and he with his burning, woeful heart would be at rest. "Rest
that is reserved for the people of God."

Had he not promised with such earnest purpose of soul, as makes words
more solemn than oaths, to save Mary from becoming such as Esther?
Should he shrink from the duties of life, into the cowardliness of
death? Who would then guard Mary, with her love and her innocence?
Would it not be a goodly thing to serve her, although she loved him
not; to be her preserving angel, through the perils of life; and she,
unconscious all the while?

He braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with God's help he
would be that earthly keeper.

And now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away from his path,
though it still was full of stinging thorns. Having done the duty
nearest to him (of reducing the tumult of his own heart to something
like order), the second became more plain before him.

Poor Esther's experience had led her, perhaps, too hastily to the
conclusion, that Mr. Carson's intentions were evil towards Mary; at
least she had given no just ground for the fears she entertained
that such was the case. It was possible, nay, to Jem's heart, very
probable, that he might only be too happy to marry her. She was a
lady by right of nature, Jem thought; in movement, grace, and spirit.
what was birth to a Manchester manufacturer, many of whom glory, and
justly too, in being the architects of their own fortunes? And, as
far as wealth was concerned, judging another by himself, Jem could
only imagine it a great privilege to lay it at the feet of the loved
one. Harry Carson's mother had been a factory girl; so, after all,
what was the great reason for doubting his intentions towards Mary?

There might probably be some little awkwardness about the affair at
first: Mary's father having such strong prejudices on the one hand;
and something of the same kind being likely to exist on the part of
Mr. Carson's family. But Jem knew he had power over John Barton's
mind; and it would be something to exert that power in promoting
Mary's happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so doing.

Oh! why had Esther chosen him for this office? It was beyond his
strength to act rightly! Why had she singled him out?

The answer came when he was calm enough to listen for it. Because
Mary had no other friend capable of the duty required of him; the
duty of a brother, as Esther imagined him to be in feeling, from his
long friendship. He would be unto her as a brother.

As such, he ought to ascertain Harry Carson's intentions towards
her in winning her affections. He would ask him, straightforwardly,
as became man speaking to man, not concealing, if need were, the
interest he felt in Mary.

Then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his power, peace
came into his soul; he had left the windy storm and tempest behind.
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