Mary Barton Page #9

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

								

   Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,
   Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.

   ELLIOTT.


Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have
swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still
thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent
watches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned
sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw
her mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do "in the days
of long-ago;" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable
tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed
her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a
dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart
called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but
lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's sorrows
are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty
power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was
far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. Aunt
Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of
wondering and began to forget. Barton still attended his club, and
was an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently
than ever, since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so
uncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained
all night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he
had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind.
Still their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the
remembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings.
Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson, had shot up into the
powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a
face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there
marked by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of
engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and
machinery to the dominions of the Czar and the Sultan. His father and
mother were never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation
pretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that
they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and
to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever
eyes and looks revealed.

One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary
met Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some
tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl,
the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many
sleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy old
woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured to
ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening.

"You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman
like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above,
who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary;
she's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she
is. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each
other. She's a genteel-looking lass, too."

At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended
visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too
delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one
would have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her
apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice
felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of
the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She made haste
home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to
make it burn the faster. For herself she was always patient; she let
the coals take their time. Then she put on her pattens, and went to
fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she
borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates
when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a
pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this
was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-tea for herself,
when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of
tea-leaves from her more abundant household. The two chairs drawn out
for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with
some skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty
to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly;
indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position
than for any real ease); a little, very little round table put
just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her
unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black
tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the
old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one
of the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all
these preparations complete, Alice began to look about her with
satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to
the comfort of the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its
appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad
large hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her
cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old
deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north,
the clap-bread of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and descending
carefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her
hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her
visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her
childhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of
common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really
to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs.
The candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was
awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready.

A knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived
in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent
quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a
sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;
her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of
dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large
handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old
woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair
she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in
order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent
choice to sit there.

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