Mary Barton Page #68

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

								

dead body. When they had ended, he said,

"Where was he shot?"

They lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and showed a blue
spot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so much
over it) in the left temple. A deadly aim! And yet it was so dark a
night!

"He must have been close upon him," said one policeman.

"And have had him between him and the sky," added the other.

There was a little commotion at the door of the room, and there stood
poor Mrs. Carson, the mother.

She had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down her maid
(much more a companion to her than her highly-educated daughters) to
discover what was going on. But the maid either forgot, or dreaded,
to return; and with nervous impatience Mrs. Carson came down herself,
and had traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servants' hall.

Mr. Carson turned round. But he could not leave the dead for any one
living.

"Take her away, nurse. It is no sight for her. Tell Miss Sophy to go
to her mother." His eyes were again fixed on the dead face of his
son.

Presently Mrs. Carson's hysterical cries were heard all over the
house. Her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agony
which was rending his heart.

Then the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. The
latter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without
uttering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation of
opening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all
present understood the confirmation of their previous belief. The
superintendent asked to speak to Mr. Carson in private.

"It was just what I was going to request of you," answered he; so he
led the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the
table.

The door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently
waiting for the other to begin.

At last Mr. Carson spoke.

"You probably have heard that I am a rich man."

The superintendent bowed in assent.

"Well, sir, half--nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune I will
give to have the murderer brought to the gallows."

"Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part; but
probably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery
of the murderer. But what I wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is
that one of my men has already got some clue, and that another (who
accompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hour found a gun
in the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw
away when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I have not the smallest
doubt of discovering the murderer."

"What do you call a handsome reward?" said Mr. Carson.

"Well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward:
more than will probably be required as a temptation to any
accomplice."

"Make it a thousand," said Mr. Carson, decisively. "It's the doing of
those damned turn-outs."

"I imagine not," said the superintendent. "Some days ago the man I
was naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came on
his beat, that he had had to separate your son from a young man, who
by his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man
had thrown Mr. Carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more
violence, when the policeman came up and interfered. Indeed, my man
wished to give him in charge for an assault, but Mr. Carson would not
allow that to be done."

"Just like him!--noble fellow!" murmured the father.

"But after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strong
threats. And it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took
place in the very same spot where the murder was committed; in Turner
Street."

There was some one knocking at the door of the room. It was Sophy,
who beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awe-struck
whisper, to come up-stairs and speak to her mother.

"She will not leave Harry, and talks so strangely.
Indeed--indeed--papa, I think she has lost her senses."

And the poor girl sobbed bitterly.

"Where is she?" asked Mr. Carson.

"In his room."

They went up stairs rapidly and silently. It was a large, comfortable
bedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering
kitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on
the dressing-table.

On the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay
the dead son. They had carried him up, and laid him down, as tenderly
as though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it looked more like
sleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was the face. You
saw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly
than when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your
attention. There was a peace about him which told that death had come
too instantaneously to give any previous pain.

In a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother,--smiling. She
held one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp),
and gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had
used to all her children when young.

"I am glad you are come," said she, looking up at her husband, and
still smiling. "Harry is so full of fun, he always has something new
to amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can't
waken him. Look! he is smiling now; he hears I have found him out.
Look!"

And, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though
they wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle
almost made them seem to move.

"Look, Amy," said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet,
trying to soothe her, by kissing her garments.

"Oh, he was always a rogue! You remember, don't you, love? how full
of play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when you
wanted to play with him. Always a rogue, Harry!"

"We must get her away, sir," said nurse; "you know there is much to
be done before--"

"I understand, nurse," said the father, hastily interrupting her
in dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of
mortality.

"Come, love," said he to his wife. "I want you to come with me. I
want to speak to you down-stairs."

"I'm coming," said she, rising; "perhaps, after all, nurse, he's
really tired, and would be glad to sleep. Don't let him get cold,
though,--he feels rather chilly," continued she, after she had bent
down, and kissed the pale lips.

Her husband put his arm round her waist, and they left the room.
Then the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. They were
startled into the reality of life and death. And yet, in the midst of
shrieks and moans, of shivering, and chattering of teeth, Sophy's eye
caught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst such violence, and
she hushed her emotion.

"Come," said she to her sisters, "nurse wants us to go; and besides,
we ought to be with mamma. Papa told the man he was talking to, when
I went for him, to wait, and she must not be left."

Meanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examining
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