Mary Barton Page #63

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

								

coppers in his hand.

"Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he,
as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "It's a fine clear night, and
I shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails.
Where's your father going? To Glasgow, did you say? Perhaps he and
I may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has
sailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet.
What's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as bad
there as here, folk say."

"No; he knows that," answered Mary, sadly. "I sometimes think he'll
never get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very hard
to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to sea with you.
It would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's
hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something
sad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a delegate from
his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this
evening."

Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very
flat to be left alone.

"You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say;
you don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?" asked the
young sailor, anxiously.

"No!" replied Mary, smiling a little, "she's the only one I know,
I believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears
a blessing sometimes; she was so downhearted when she dreaded it,
and now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No!
Margaret's happy, I do think."

"I could almost wish it had been otherwise," said Will, thoughtfully.
"I could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she
had been in trouble."

"And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" asked
Mary.

"Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better than I am! And her voice!
When I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it
seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be
to ask an angel from heaven."

Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at
the idea of Margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her
dress-making imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be
fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print.

Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's pretty merry
laugh. Then he said--

"Ay, you may laugh, Mary; it only shows you've never been in love."

In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her
soft gray eyes; she was suffering so much from the doubts arising
from love! It was unkind of him. He did not notice her change of
look and of complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he
continued:

"I thought--I think, that when I come back from this voyage, I will
speak. It's my fourth voyage in the same ship, and with the same
captain, and he's promised he'll make me second mate after this trip;
then I shall have something to offer Margaret; and her grandfather,
and aunt Alice, shall live with her, to keep her from being lonesome
while I'm at sea. I'm speaking as if she cared for me, and would
marry me; d'ye think she does care at all for me, Mary?" asked he,
anxiously.

Mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but she
did not feel as if she had any right to give it. So she said--

"You must ask Margaret, not me, Will; she's never named your name to
me." His countenance fell. "But I should say that was a good sign
from a girl like her. I've no right to say what I think; but, if I
was you, I would not leave her now without speaking."

"No! I cannot speak! I have tried. I've been in to wish them
good-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. I could say nought of what
I'd planned to say; and I never thought of being so bold as to offer
her marriage till I'd been my next trip, and been made mate. I could
not even offer her this box," said he, undoing his paper parcel and
displaying a gaudily ornamented accordion; "I longed to buy her
something, and I thought, if it were something in the music line, she
would may-be fancy it more. So, will you give it to her, Mary, when
I'm gone? and, if you can slip in something tender,--something, you
know, of what I feel,--may-be she would listen to you, Mary."

Mary promised that she would do all that he asked.

"I shall be thinking on her many and many a night, when I'm keeping
my watch in mid-sea; I wonder if she will ever think on me when the
wind is whistling, and the gale rising. You'll often speak of me to
her, Mary? And if I should meet with any mischance, tell her how
dear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of one
who loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt Alice. Dear old
aunt! you and Margaret will often go and see her, won't you? She's
sadly failed since I was last ashore. And so good as she has been!
When I lived with her, a little wee chap, I used to be wakened by the
neighbours knocking her up; this one was ill, or that body's child
was restless; and, for as tired as ever she might be, she would be
up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's wash
afore her next morning. Them were happy times! How pleased I used to
be when she would take me into the fields with her to gather herbs!
I've tasted tea in China since then, but it wasn't half so good as
the herb tea she used to make for me o' Sunday nights. And she knew
such a deal about plants and birds, and their ways! She used to tell
me long stories about her childhood, and we used to plan how we would
go sometime, please God (that was always her word), and live near her
old home beyond Lancaster; in the very cottage where she was born if
we could get it. Dear! and how different it is! Here is she still in
a back street o' Manchester, never likely to see her own home again;
and I, a sailor, off for America next week. I wish she had been able
to go to Burton once afore she died."

"She would may be have found all sadly changed," said Mary, though
her heart echoed Will's feeling.

"Ay! ay! I dare say it's best. One thing I do wish though, and I have
often wished it when out alone on the deep sea, when even the most
thoughtless can't choose but think on th' past and th' future; and
that is, that I'd never grieved her. Oh Mary! many a hasty word comes
sorely back on the heart, when one thinks one shall never see the
person whom one has grieved again!"

They both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started.

"That's father's step. And his shirt's not ready!"

She hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost time.

John Barton came in. Such a haggard and wildly anxious looking man,
Will thought he had never seen. He looked at Will, but spoke no word
of greeting or welcome.

"I'm come to bid you good bye," said the sailor, and would in his
sociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. But John answered
abruptly,

"Good bye to ye, then."

There was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire to get
rid of the visitor, and Will accordingly shook hands with Mary, and
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes