Mary Barton Page #67

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

								

feet. Helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting,
towards nurse.

"My dears, he is dead! But I have sent for a doctor. I have done all
I could."

"When did he--when did they bring him home?" asked Sophy.

"Perhaps ten minutes ago. Before you rang for Parker."

"How did he die? Where did they find him? He looked so well. He
always seemed so strong. Oh! are you sure he is dead?"

She went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her arm.

"Miss Sophy, I have not told you all. Can you bear to hear it?
Remember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet. Come,
you must help me to tell him. Now be quiet, dear! It was no common
death he died!" She looked in her face as if trying to convey her
meaning by her eyes.

Sophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound.

"He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner Street,
to-night."

Sophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost
convulsively.

"My dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father and
mother have yet to be told. Speak! Miss Sophy!"

But she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. The nurse
left the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatile
and water. Sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps.
Then she spoke in a calm unnatural voice.

"What do you want me to do, nurse? Go to Helen and poor Amy. See,
they want help."

"Poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. You must go to
master; that's what I want you to do, Miss Sophy. You must break it
to him, poor old gentleman. Come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and
the men are waiting to speak to him."

Sophy went mechanically to the dining-room door.

"Oh! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say?"

"I'll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by degrees."

"I can't, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to say the wrong
thing."

However, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shaded light
of the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features,
while his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco
of the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the
carpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply.

At that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans's song came full into
Sophy's mind.

   "Ye know not what ye do,
     That call the slumberer back
   From the realms unseen by you,
     To life's dim, weary track."

But this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more
than dim and weary, hereafter.

"Papa," said she, softly. He did not stir.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, somewhat louder.

He started up, half awake.

"Tea is ready, is it?" and he yawned.

"No! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!"

He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered,
and did not see the expression of her face.

"Master Henry is not come back," said nurse. Her voice, heard in
unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes,
he looked at the servant.

"Harry! oh no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters about these
cursed turn-outs. I don't expect him yet. What are you looking at me
so strangely for, Sophy?"

"Oh, papa, Harry is come back," said she, bursting into tears.

"What do you mean?" said he, startled into an impatient consciousness
that something was wrong. "One of you says he is not come home, and
the other says he is. Now that's nonsense! Tell me at once what's the
matter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is he thrown? Speak, child,
can't you?"

"No! he's not been thrown, papa," said Sophy, sadly.

"But he's badly hurt," put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his
anxiety to a point.

"Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?" said he, hastily
rising, as if to leave the room.

"Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but I'm afraid--I believe it's
of no use."

He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. His
son, his only son, was dead.

He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed
his head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook and
rattled under his agony.

Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.

"Go! you are not Harry," said he; but the action roused him.

"Where is he? where is the--" said he, with his strong face set into
the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.

"In the servants' hall," said nurse. "Two policemen and another man
brought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you are
able, sir."

"I am able now," replied he. At first when he stood up, he tottered.
But steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill,
to the door. Then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from
the decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caught the
wine-glass which Harry had used but two or three hours before. He
sighed a long quivering sigh. And then mastering himself again, he
left the room.

"You had better go back to your sisters, Miss Sophy," said nurse.

Miss Carson went. She could not face death yet.

The nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servants' hall. There, on their
dinner-table, lay the poor dead body. The men who had brought it were
sitting near the fire, while several of the servants stood round the
table, gazing at the remains.

The remains!

One or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into a
strange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead.
When Mr. Carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the
reverence due to sorrow.

He went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face;
then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. The
policemen had advanced and stood ready to be questioned. But at first
the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death; slowly,
slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. "How did he die?"
he groaned forth.

The policemen looked at each other. Then one began, and stated that
having heard the report of a gun in Turner Street, he had turned down
that way (a lonely, unfrequented way Mr. Carson knew, but a short
cut to his garden-door, of which Harry had a key); that as he (the
policeman) came nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a man running
away; but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yet risen)
that he could see no one twenty yards off. That he had even been
startled when close to the body by seeing it lying across the path at
his feet. That he had sprung his rattle; and when another policeman
came up, by the light of the lantern they had discovered who it was
that had been killed. That they believed him to be dead when they
first took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. That
intelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, who
would probably soon be here. That two or three policemen were still
about the place where the murder was committed, seeking out for some
trace of the murderer. Having said this, they stopped speaking.

Mr. Carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off the
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