Mary Barton Page #66

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

								

gone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia
of shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was
equipped before setting out for an "airing," in the closely shut-up
carriage.

So the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant,
well-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young
ladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time
until the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the
night before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried
to read "Emerson's Essays," and fell asleep in the attempt; the other
was turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she
liked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air
was heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent
out their night odours from an adjoining conservatory.

The clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy (the sleeping
sister) started up at the sound.

"What o'clock is that?" she asked.

"Eight," said Amy.

"Oh dear! how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea would rouse one up a
little. Are not you worn out, Helen?"

"Yes; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after a
dance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time; I suppose it is the
lateness of the hours."

"And yet, how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't dine till
five or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it
takes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. It is always
more pleasant after supper than before."

"Well, I'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of
dances or balls. What are you copying, Amy?"

"Only that little Spanish air you sing--'Quien quiera.'"

"What are you copying it for?" asked Helen.

"Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time,--for
Miss Richardson, he said."

"For Jane Richardson!" said Sophy, as if a new idea were receiving
strength in her mind.

"Do you think Harry means any thing by his attention to her?" asked
Helen.

"Nay, I do not know any thing more than you do; I can only observe
and conjecture. What do you think, Helen?"

"Harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room.
If one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about
her, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. That is his way,
and I have not noticed any thing beyond that in his manner to Jane
Richardson."

"But I don't think she knows it's only his way. Just watch her the
next time we meet her when Harry is there, and see how she crimsons,
and looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. I think
he sees it, too, and I think he is pleased with it."

"I dare say Harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a
lovely girl as Jane Richardson. But I'm not convinced that he is in
love, whatever she may be."

"Well, then!" said Sophy, indignantly, "though it is our own brother,
I do think he is behaving very wrongly. The more I think of it the
more sure I am that she thinks he means something, and that he
intends her to think so. And then, when he leaves off paying her
attention--"

"Which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance,"
interrupted Helen.

"As soon as he leaves off paying her attention," resumed Sophy,
"she will have many and many a heart-ache, and then she will harden
herself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine
flirt. Poor girl!"

"I don't like to hear you speak so of Harry," said Amy, looking up at
Sophy.

"And I don't like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love him dearly.
He is a good, kind brother, but I do think him vain, and I think he
hardly knows the misery, the crimes, to which indulged vanity may
lead him."

Helen yawned.

"Oh! do you think we may ring for tea? Sleeping after dinner always
makes me so feverish."

"Yes, surely. Why should not we?" said the more energetic Sophy,
pulling the bell with some determination.

"Tea directly, Parker," said she, authoritatively, as the man entered
the room.

She was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the faces
of others to notice Parker's countenance.

Yet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lips
compressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyes
distended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken face.

The girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for
tea. The door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who
entered. I call her nurse, for such had been her office in by-gone
days, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the
family. Seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the
stores; only "Nurse" was still her name. She had lived longer with
them than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less
haughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally came into the
drawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother,
so it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room.
They went on arranging their various articles of employment.

She wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something in her
face--her face so full of woe, of horror. But they went on without
taking any notice. She coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those
coughs which ask so plainly for remark.

"Dear nurse, what is the matter?" asked Amy. "Are not you well?"

"Is mamma ill?" asked Sophy, quickly.

"Speak, speak, nurse!" said they all, as they saw her efforts to
articulate, choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. They
clustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some
terrible truth to be revealed.

"My dear young ladies! my dear girls," she gasped out at length, and
then she burst into tears.

"Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse," said one. "Any thing is better
than this. Speak!"

"My children! I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poor Mr.
Harry is brought home--"

"Brought home--brought home--how?" Instinctively they sank their
voices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. In the same low
tone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate
things which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear,
she answered,

"Dead!"

Amy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to know
if such a tale could be true; and when she read its confirmation in
those sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or
sound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sister sat down on an
ottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it. That was Sophy.
Helen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the pillows,
tried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame.

The nurse stood silent. She had not told all.

"Tell me," said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice,
which told of the inward pain, "tell me, nurse! Is he dead, did you
say? Have you sent for a doctor? Oh! send for one, send for one,"
continued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes