Mary Barton Page #57

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

								

character.


   [Footnote 44: "Knob-sticks," those who consent to work at
                 lower wages.]


And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. She heard
of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to
house, finding and making friends everywhere. But she never saw him.
What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few hasty words,
spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? At
times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own
constant power of loving. For of change or of forgetfulness she did
not dream. Then at other times her state of impatience was such, that
it required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and
seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman)
begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract
them, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole
heart. She wished Margaret had not advised her against such a manner
of proceeding; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed to
make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal
urgings. But a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts
into language the secret oracle of our souls. It was the whisperings
of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly
action, not Margaret's counsel.

All this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to Manchester,
there was something going on which interested Mary even now, and
which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited
her. She saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random,
boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim,
somewhat plain Margaret: she doubted if Margaret was aware of it, and
yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct
made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her
pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming
rose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speak so decidedly
as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make
her very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable than
excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had
always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness,
and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their
white down-cast lids. She must be conscious, thought Mary,--heart
answering heart.

Will's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words;
it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid
of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It was Margaret's
angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her
as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. So he tried
to propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to
rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous
present by the way). He hesitated over a child's caul for some time,
which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any Exocetus.
What use could it be of to a landsman? Then Margaret's voice rang
in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious
possession, to one whom she loved, as she did her grandfather.

It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the
flying-fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them
for security all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was so
indifferent to the precious caul, that he might easily claim it
again. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings and
reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt Alice's
claims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethought him of some
other little word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talking
once more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some
little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. But as
the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go
and do his duty.

Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson without
success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so
irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters,
which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth, without
any purpose on Jem's part, they met.

It was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and
one; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for
a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in
that busy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for his
master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a
lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future
builder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as
far as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. Along
one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and
spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one
from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the
foot-path. The carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a
cart, could possibly have passed along, without Hercules to assist
in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side of the
way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a
sawpit, and joiner's shed.

Jem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man
approaching, with a light, buoyant step. This, then, was he whom Mary
loved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith
so elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his superiority in
externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then something
uprose within him, and told him, that "a man's a man for a' that,
for a' that, and twice as much as a' that." And he no longer felt
troubled by the outward appearance of his rival.

Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with
almost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking
artisan stopped him by saying respectfully,

"May I speak a word wi' you, sir?"

"Certainly, my good man," looking his astonishment; then finding that
the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, "But make
haste, for I'm in a hurry."

Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject
uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. With
a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said,

"I think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called Mary
Barton?"

A light broke in upon Harry Carson's mind, and he paused before he
gave the answer for which the other waited.

Could this man be a lover of Mary's? And (strange, stinging thought)
could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate
rejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black,
grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward
(according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and
recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bed-room.
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