Mary Barton Page #64

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

								

looked at John, as if doubting how far to offer to shake hands with
him. But he met with no answering glance or gesture, so he went his
way, stopping for an instant at the door to say,

"You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's the day we shall hoist
our blue Peter, Jack Harris says."

Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed like shutting
out a friendly sunbeam. And her father! what could be the matter with
him? He was so restless; not speaking (she wished he would), but
starting up and then sitting down, and meddling with her irons; he
seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. She wondered if he
disliked Will being there; or if he were vexed to find that she had
not got further on with her work. At last she could bear his nervous
way no longer, it made her equally nervous and fidgetty. She would
speak.

"When are you going, father? I don't know the time o' the trains."

"And why shouldst thou know?" replied he, gruffly. "Meddle with thy
ironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern
thee."

"I wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she, gently.

"Thou dost not know that I'm larning to do without food," said he.

Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No! he looked
savagely grave.

She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she
was sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the
degrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was
increased, if not caused, by want of food.

He had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate to
Glasgow, and out of this he had given Mary a few shillings in the
morning; so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her
care was to cook it so as most to tempt him.

"If thou'rt doing that for me, Mary, thou may'st spare thy labour. I
telled thee I were not for eating."

"Just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed Mary,
perseveringly.

At that instant, who should come in but Job Legh. It was not often he
came, but when he did pay visits, Mary knew from past experience they
were any thing but short. Her father's countenance fell back into
the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of
Mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. He became again restless and
fidgetty, scarcely giving Job Legh the greeting necessary for a host
in his own house. Job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. He had
come to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. He
was interested in John Barton's mission to Glasgow, and wanted to
hear all about it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a
manner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary.

"So thou'rt off to Glasgow, art thou?" he began his catechism.

"Ay."

"When art starting?"

"To-night."

"That I knowed. But by what train?"

That was just what Mary wanted to know; but what apparently her
father was in no mood to tell. He got up without speaking, and
went up-stairs. Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he
was put out, and feared Job would see it, too. But no! Job seemed
imperturbable. So much the better, and perhaps she could cover her
father's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend.

So half listening to her father's movements up-stairs, (passionate,
violent, restless motions they were) and half attending to Job Legh,
she tried to pay him all due regard.

"When does thy father start, Mary?"

That plaguing question again.

"Oh! very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of supper. Is Margaret
very well?"

"Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and keep Alice Wilson
company for an hour or so this evening; as soon as she thinks her
nephew will have started for Liverpool; for she fancies the old woman
will feel a bit lonesome. Th' Union is paying for your father, I
suppose?"

"Yes, they've given him a sovereign. You're one of th' Union, Job?"

"Ay! I'm one, sure enough; but I'm but a sleeping partner in the
concern. I were obliged to become a member for peace, else I don't go
along with 'em. Yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for
differing with them; well! there's no harm in that. But then they
won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to
be as wise as they are; now that's not British liberty, I say. I'm
forced to be wise according to their notions, else they parsecute me,
and sarve me out."

What could her father be doing up-stairs? Tramping and banging about.
Why did he not come down? Or why did not Job go? The supper would be
spoilt.

But Job had no notion of going.

"You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I could get; I
think half a loaf is better than no bread. I would work for low wages
rather than sit idle and starve. But, comes the Trades' Union, and
says, 'Well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry you out of your
life. Will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?' Now clemming is a
quiet death, and worrying isn't, so I choose clemming, and come into
th' Union. But I wish they'd leave me free, if I am a fool."

Creak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming down at last.

Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up
for his journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. He went up
to Job, and, more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye. He
then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her farewell.

"Oh! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay one
moment!"

But he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed him to the door,
her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him.
He was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the
court, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly,
and took her in his arms.

"God bless thee, Mary!--God in heaven bless thee, poor child!" She
threw her arms round his neck.

"Don't go yet, father; I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eat
some supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!"

"No," he said, faintly and mournfully. "It's best as it is. I
couldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home.
I must be moving."

So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once
more, set off on his fierce errand.

And he was out of sight! She did not know why, but she had never
before felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned in to Job, who sat
there still. Her father, as soon as he was out of sight, slackened
his pace, and fell into that heavy listless step, which told as well
as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. It was getting dark,
but he loitered on, returning no greeting to any one.

A child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running on little
Tom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. He followed the
sound of the wail, that might have been his, and found a poor
little mortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up
his thoughts to the single want, "Mammy, mammy." With tender address,
John Barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he
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