Mary Barton Page #62

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

								

knob-stick) if they could see the sight I saw to-day. The man lay,
his face all wrapped in cloths, so I didn't see that; but not a
limb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain. He
would ha' bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn't, his
face hurt him so if he moved it e'er so little. He could scarce mind
me when I telled him about Jonas; he did squeeze my hand when I
jingled the money, but when I axed his wife's name he shrieked out,
'Mary, Mary, shall I never see you again? Mary, my darling, they've
made me blind because I wanted to work for you and our own baby; oh,
Mary, Mary!' Then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that I
had made him worse. And I'm afeard it was true; yet I were loth to go
without knowing where to send the money. . . . So that kept me beyond
my time, chaps."

"Did yo hear where the wife lived at last?" asked many anxious
voices.

"No! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a
knife. I axed th' nurse to find out who she was, and where she lived.
But what I'm more especial naming it now for is this,--for one thing
I wanted yo all to know why I weren't at my post this morning; for
another, I wish to say, that I, for one, ha' seen enough of what
comes of attacking knob-sticks, and I'll ha nought to do with it no
more."

There were some expressions of disapprobation, but John did not mind
them.

"Nay! I'm no coward," he replied, "and I'm true to th' backbone. What
I would like, and what I would do, would be to fight the masters.
There's one among yo called me a coward. Well! every man has a right
to his opinion; but since I've thought on th' matter to-day, I've
thought we han all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor
like ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun choose between
vitriol and starvation. I say we're more cowardly in doing that than
in leaving them alone. No! what I would do is this. Have at the
masters!" Again he shouted, "Have at the masters!" He spoke lower;
all listened with hushed breath.

"It's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the masters as should
pay for it. Him as called me coward just now, may try if I am one or
not. Set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's ought I'll
stick at."

"It would give th' masters a bit on a fright if one on them were
beaten within an inch of his life," said one.

"Ay! or beaten till no life were left in him," growled another.

And so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up
a deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches,
as they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring, with
eyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon their
neighbours. Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks,
all told the suffering their minds were voluntarily undergoing in
the contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves with its
details.

Then came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members
of Trades' Unions to any given purpose. Then, under the flaring
gaslight, they met together to consult further. With the distrust
of guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the
treachery of another. A number of pieces of paper (the identical
letter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning) were
torn up, and one was marked. Then all were folded up again, looking
exactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat. The gas was
extinguished; each drew out a paper. The gas was re-lighted. Then
each went as far as he could from his fellows, and examined the paper
he had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony
and immovable as he could make it.

Then, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went
every one his own way.

He who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin!
and he had sworn to act according to his drawing! But no one save God
and his own conscience knew who was the appointed murderer!




CHAPTER XVII.

BARTON'S NIGHT-ERRAND.


   "Mournful is't to say Farewell,
     Though for few brief hours we part;
   In that absence, who can tell
     What may come to wring the heart!"

   ANONYMOUS.


The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. On
Thursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in the midst of some little
bustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson.
He looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different
expression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. He had
a paper parcel in his hand. He came in, and sat down, more quietly
than usual.

"Why, Will! what's the matter with you? You seem quite cut up about
something!"

"And I am, Mary! I'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to say
good-bye to them they love."

"Good-bye! Bless me, Will, that's sudden, isn't it?"

Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fire-place. She
had always liked Will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of
sisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to
hear of his approaching departure.

"It's very sudden, isn't it?" said she, repeating her question.

"Yes! it's very sudden," said he, dreamily. "No, it isn't;" rousing
himself, to think of what he was saying. "The captain told me in a
fortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden
on me, I had got so fond of you all."

Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised.
She spoke again.

"But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since you
knocked at Jane Wilson's door, and I was there, you remember. Nothing
like a fortnight!"

"No; I know it's not. But, you see, I got a letter this afternoon
from Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next; and it's
long since I promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives
at Kirk-Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that I'd go and
see him and his, this time of coming ashore. I must go. I'm sorry
enough; but I mustn't slight poor mother's friends. I must go. Don't
try to keep me," said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own
resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty.

"I'm not a-going, Will. I dare say you're right; only I can't help
feeling sorry you're going away. It seems so flat to be left behind.
When do you go?"

"To-night. I shan't see you again."

"To-night! and you go to Liverpool! May be you and father will go
together. He's going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool."

"No! I'm walking; and I don't think your father will be up to
walking."

"Well! and why on earth are you walking? You can get by railway for
three-and-sixpence."

"Ay, but Mary! (thou mustn't let out what I'm going to tell thee) I
haven't got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence left, at least
not here; before I came here I gave my landlady enough to carry me to
the island and back, and may be a trifle for presents, and I brought
all the rest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few
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