Mary Barton

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  IV. OLD ALICE'S HISTORY.

  "To envy nought beneath the ample sky; To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent; And like a living violet, silently 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 haveswept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband stillthought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silentwatches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earnedsleep, and think, in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she sawher mother stand by her bedside, as she used to do "in the days oflong ago"; with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffabletenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbedher eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was adream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heartcalled on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had butlived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman'ssorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even bythe mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact,that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother shemourned. Aunt Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people hadgrown weary of wondering, and begun to forget. Barton stillattended his club, and was an active member of a Trades' Unionindeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of Mary's returnin the evening was so uncertain; and as she occasionally, in verybusy times, remained all night. His chiefest friend was stillGeorge Wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questionsthat agitated Barton's mind. But their hearts were bound by oldties to one another, and the remembrance of former things gave anunspoken charm to their meetings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad,Jem Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, witha sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome,had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. He workedwith one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out theirtowns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of theCzar and the Sultan. His father and mother were never weary ofpraising Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton wouldtoss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her tounderstand what a good husband he would make, and to favour hislove, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looksrevealed.

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

  "You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old womanlike 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 sheis. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to eachother. She's a genteel-looking lass, too."

  At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended visitorwas to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was toodelicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when onewould have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from herapprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busyAlice felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now hersense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. Shemade haste home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair ofbellows to make it burn the faster. For herself she was alwayspatient; she let the coals take their time. Then she put on herpattens, and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court,and on her way she borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty,serving as plates when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea anda quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning'swages; but this was an unusual occasion. In general, she usedherb-tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistressmade a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant household. Thetwo chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an oldboard arranged with some skill upon two old candle boxes set on end(rather rickety to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and whento sit lightly; indeed the whole affair was more for apparentdignity of position than for any real ease); a little, very littleround table, put just before the fire, which by this time wasblazing merrily; her unlacquered ancient, third-hand tea-trayarranged with a black tea-pot, two cups with a red and whitepattern, and one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers,not to match (on one of the extra supply the lump of butterflourished away); all these preparations complete, Alice began tolook about her with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what morecould be done to add to the comfort of the evening. She took one ofthe chairs away from its appropriate place by the table, and puttingit close to the broad large hanging shelf I told you about when Ifirst described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulledtowards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oatbread of the north, the "clap-bread" of Cumberland and Westmoreland,and descending carefully with the thin cakes, threatening to breakto pieces in her hand, she placed them on the bare table, with thebelief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating thebread of her childhood. She brought out a good piece of afour-pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then sat downto rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on one of therush-bottomed chairs. The candle was ready to be lighted, thekettle 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 livedin the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequentquiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was asallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind ofdark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or largehandkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front.

  The old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down onthe chair she had just left, while she balanced herself on the boardseat, in order that Margaret might think it was quite her free andindependent choice to sit there.

  "I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with herlate hours," said Alice, as Mary still delayed.

  The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor oldAlice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she shouldput on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no,they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression,and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--andthere was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on herpretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat her little linencollar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentleMargaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought muchabout beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, asshe came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaretcould hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long blacklashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had takensuch pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make thetea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help andhelp again to clap-bread and bread and butter? Can you fancy thedelight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappearbefore the hungry girls and listened to the praises of herhome-remembered dainty?

  "My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-countryperson--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far awayfrom home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in servicemy fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's along time ago, yon."

  "Do tell us about it, Alice," said Margaret.

  "
Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at homethan could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will,but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, andsent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for ladsand lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, wellenough, Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where welived, and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wroteas how wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe orLancaster; and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought itwas a fine thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcherhe brings us a letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--andI was all agog to go, and father was pleased like; but mother saidlittle, and that little was very quiet. I've often thought she wasa bit hurt to see me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packedup my clothes, and some of the better end of her own as would fitme, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, butI would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; andyet it is going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she wasa girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's when they weremarried. But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tearswas often in her eyes; and I seen her looking after me down the laneas long as I were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and thatwere the last look I ever had on her."

  Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and,besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselvesout before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girlscaught her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been deadand gone so many years ago.

  "Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home whileshe was alive?" asked Mary.

  "No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned to go. I planit yet, and hope to go home again before it please God to take me.I used to try and save money enough to go for a week when I was inservice; but first one thing came, and then another. First,missis's children fell ill of the measles, just when the week I'dasked for came, and I couldn't leave them, for one and all cried forme to nurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could goless than ever. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and hedrank, and missis and me was all there was to mind children and shopand all, and cook and wash besides."

  Mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so.

  "Eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; I wasas happy there as could be; almost as happy as I was at home. Well,but next year I thought I could go at a leisure time, and missistelled me I should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up allthat winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my ownmaking to take to my mother. But master died, and missis went awayfra Manchester, and I'd to look out for a place again."

  "Well, but," interrupted Mary, "I should have thought that was thebest time to go home."

  "No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing going home fora week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father alift, to going home to be a burden to him. Besides, how could Ihear o' a place there? Anyways I thought it best to stay, thoughperhaps it might have been better to ha' gone, for then I should ha'seen mother again"; and the poor old woman looked puzzled.

  "I'm sure you did what you thought right," said Margaret gently.

  "Ay, lass, that's it," said Alice, raising her head and speakingmore cheerfully. "That's the thing, and then let the Lord send whatHe sees fit; not but that I grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, whentowards spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining,George came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I cried manya night at after;* I'd no time for crying by day, for that missiswas terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th'funeral; and indeed I would have been too late, for George set offthat very night by th' coach, and the letter had been kept or summut(posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burialall over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide thecottage after mother was gone."

  *"Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, AT AFTER supper." --SHAKSPEARE, Richard III.

  "Was it a pretty place?" asked Mary.

  "Pretty, lass! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You seethere are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not nearmaybe, but that makes them all the bonnier. I used to think theywere the golden hills of heaven, about which mother sang when I wasa child--

  "'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven, Where ye sall never win.'

  "Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover,the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses!ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Grey pieces o' stone aslarge as a house, all covered over wi' mosses of different colours,some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep inpurple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low musicof the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to sendSally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it wassuch pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so asyou could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. Andthen mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree(where we used to make our house among the great roots as stoodabove th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems alllike yesterday, and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sisterSally has been in her grave this forty year and more. But I oftenwonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still goto gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. Isicken at heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summerI may set off, if God spares me to see next summer."

  "Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary.

  "Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't gowithout money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was ascapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind oranother; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always marriedlong before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She werealways ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to dowith my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died withintwelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, butthe Lord had taken six to Hisself), Will, as I was telling you onand I took him myself, and left service to make a bit of ahome-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of hisfather as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, althoughnought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to sethim again a sailor's life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs allthe time they're at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she camefrom foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she'd ha' thanked anyone for throwing her into the water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way toRuncorn by th' Duke's canal, that he might know what th' sea were;and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting.But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and came backmore set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he hadnever been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea prettywell. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me andkissed me, for all I was very frabbit* with him; and now he's goneto South America at t'other side of the sun, they tell me."

  *Frabbit; peevish.

  Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice'sgeography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was indoubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledgewas very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knewwhere to find France and the continents on a map.

  After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; andthe girls respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wanderedto the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at onceshe recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought backher mind to the present time.

  "Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know aboutfine music myself, but folks say Marget is a rare singer, and I knowshe can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Dosing that, Marget, there's a good lass."

  W
ith a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song,Margaret began.

  Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire bornand bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it foryou.

  THE OLDHAM WEAVER.

  I.

  Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've worn eawt my clooas,Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,My clogs are both brosten, an' stuckings oi've none, Yo'd think it wur hard, To be browt into th' warld,To be--clemmed,* an' do th' best as yo con.

  II.

  Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me long,Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath, Owd Dicky's weel crammed, He never wur clemmed,An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife,**

  III.

  We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last,We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food, Oi'm tellin' yo' true, Oi can find folk enow,As wur livin' na better nor me.

  IV.

  Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods for th' rent, We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo', That wur seeats fur two,An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.

  Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse;Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see";Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me." They made no moor ado But whopped up th' eawd stoo',An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags

  VI.

  Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,"We's never be lower i' this warld oi'm sure,If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend; For meeat we ha' none, Nor looms t' weyve on,--Edad! they're as good lost as fund."

  VII.

  Eawr Marget declares had hoo clooas to put on,Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet monAn' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend; Hoo's neawt to say again t' king, But hoo loikes a fair thing,An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.

  *Clem; to starve with hunger. "Hard is the choice, when the valiant must eat their arms or CLEM."--BEN JONSON. **To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.

  The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative,depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may,perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin topathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is apowerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed thedestitution, and had the heart to feel it, and withal, her voice wasof that rich and rare order, which does not require any greatcompass of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quietenjoyment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest,dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising toherself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might atthat very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distanceof their comparative comfort.

  Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificentvoice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were indistress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Maryheld her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, soperfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary mighthave paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledgewith which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used hersuperb and flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldhamfactory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds asMrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

  She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alicethanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much toMary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprisedthat the hidden power should not be perceived in the outwardappearance.

  When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quietenough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, goingover again one or two strains of Margaret's song.

  "That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he saidhe should not be at home till past nine."

  "Well, I'll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a veryheavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to seeyou again at any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to oneanother."

  As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said--"Juststep in and see grandfather, I should like him to see you."

  And Mary consented.