Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  “Will’s not to the fore. But he’ll maybe turn up yet, time enough.”

  She looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting if such despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply. Then she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might have been expected from her previous excited manner —

  “Don’t go for to say that! Thou dost not think it. Thou’rt well- nigh hopeless, like me. I seed all along my lad would be hung for what he never did. And better he were, and were shut* of this weary world, where there’s neither justice nor mercy left.”

  *Shut; quit.

  She looked up with tranced eyes as if praying, and then sat down.

  “Nay, now thou’rt off at a gallop,” said Job. “Will has sailed this morning, for sure; but that brave wench, Mary Barton, is after him, and will bring him back, I’ll be bound, if she can but get speech on him. She’s not back yet. Come, come, hold up thy head. It will all end right.”

  “It will all end right,” echoed she; “but not as thou tak’st it. Jem will be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads, where the Lord God wipes away all tears, and where the Lord Jesus speaks kindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left upon earth. Eh, Job, yon’s a blessed land, and I long to go to it, and yet I fret because Jem is hastening there. I would not fret if he and I could lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit would I fret if folk would but know him to be innocent — as I do.”

  “They’ll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they’ve hanged him for what he never did,” replied Job.

  “Ay, that they will. Poor souls! May God have mercy on them when they find out their mistake.”

  Presently Job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung about the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. It was pitch dark, for the moon had not yet risen.

  “You just go to bed,” said he to the widow; “you’ll want your strength for to-morrow. Jem will be sadly off, if he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. I’ll step down again and find Mary. She’ll be back by this time. I’ll come and tell you everything, never fear. But now, you go to bed.”

  “Thou’rt a kind friend, Job Legh, and I’ll go, as thou wishest me. But, oh! mind thou com’st straight off to me, and bring Mary as soon as thou’st lit on her.” She spoke low, but very calmly.

  “Ay, ay!” replied Job, slipping out of the house.

  He went first to Mr. Bridgnorth’s, where it had struck him that Will and Mary might be all this time waiting for him.

  They were not there, however. Mr. Bridgnorth had just come in, and Job went breathlessly upstairs to consult with him as to the state of the case.

  “It’s a bad job,” said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he arranged his papers. “Johnson told me how it was; the woman that Wilson lodged with told him. I doubt it’s but a wildgoose chase of the girl Barton. Our case must rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner’s previous character. A very vague and weak defence. However, I’ve engaged Mr. Clinton as counsel, and he’ll make the best of it. And now, my good fellow, I must wish you good-night, and turn you out of doors. As it is, I shall have to sit up into the small hours. Did you see my clerk as you came upstairs? You did! Then may I trouble you to ask him to step up immediately?”

  After this Job could not stay, and, making his humble bow, he left the room.

  Then he went to Mrs. Jones’s. She was in, but Charley had slipped off again. There was no holding that boy. Nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always; for once she had him locked up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. Perhaps now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. He never wanted an excuse to be there.

  Unasked, Job took a chair, resolved to wait Charley’s reappearance.

  Mrs. Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of Charley and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for India, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. She moaned and croaked over sailors, and seaport towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after Job had left off attending to her, and was only trying to hearken to every step and every voice in the street.

  At last Charley came in, but he came alone.

  “Yon Mary Barton has getten into some scrape or another,” said he, addressing himself to Job. “She’s not to be heard of at any of the piers; and Bourne says it were a boat from the Cheshire side as she went aboard of. So there’s no hearing of her till to-morrow morning.”

  “To-morrow morning she’ll have to be in court at nine o’clock, to bear witness on a trial,” said Job sorrowfully.

  “So she said; at least somewhat of the kind,” said Charley, looking desirous to hear more. But Job was silent.

  He could not think of anything further that could be done; so he rose up, and, thanking Mrs. Jones for the shelter she had given him, he went out into the street; and there he stood still, to ponder over probabilities and chances.

  After some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where he had left Mrs. Wilson. There was nothing else to be done; but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be spared her questionings.

  He went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady awaited his coming and his bringing the girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman’s bed.

  But in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting the candle (she could see to have a nap by firelight, she said), that the voice of Mrs. Wilson was heard from the little back-room, where she was to pass the night.

  “Who’s there?”

  Job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think herself mistaken. The landlady, having no such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening woman that Job had returned.

  “Job! Job Legh!” she cried out nervously.

  “Eh, dear!” said Job to himself, going reluctantly to her bedroom door. “I wonder if one little lie would be a sin, as things stand? It would happen give her sleep, and she won’t have sleep for many and many a night (not to call sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow. I’ll chance it, any way.”

  “Job! art thou there?” asked she again with a trembling impatience that told in every tone of her voice.

  “Ay! sure! I thought thou’d ha’ been asleep by this time.”

  “Asleep! How could I sleep till I know’d if Will were found?”

  “Now for it,” muttered Job to himself. Then in a louder voice,

  “Never fear! he’s found, and safe, ready for to-morrow.”

  “And he’ll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? He’ll bear witness that Jem were with him? O Job, speak! tell me all!”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” thought Job. “Happen one prayer will do for the sum total. Any rate, I must go on now. Ay, ay,” shouted he, through the door. “He can prove all; and Jem will come off as clear as a new-born babe.”

  He could hear Mrs. Wilson’s rustling movements, and in an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to God, stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief.

  And when he heard this, his heart misgave him; for he thought of the awful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited her in the morning. He saw the shortsightedness of falsehood; but what could he do now?

  While he listened, she ended her grateful prayers.

  “And Mary? Thou’st found her at Mrs. Jones’s, Job?” said she, continuing her inquiries.

  He gave a great sigh.

  “Yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going. God forgive me!” muttered he, “who’d ha’ thought of my turning out such an arrant liar in my old days.”


  “Bless the wench! Is she here? Why does she not come to bed? I’m sure she’s need.”

  Job coughed away his remains of conscience, and made answer —

  “She was a bit weary, and o’erdone with her sail! and Mrs. Jones axed her to stay there all night. It was nigh at hand to the courts, where she will have to be in the morning.”

  “It comes easy enough after a while,” groaned out Job. “The father of lies helps one, I suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as truth. She’s done questioning now, that’s one good thing. I’ll be off, before Satan and she are at me again.”

  He went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting. Her husband was in bed, and asleep long ago.

  But Job had not yet made up his mind what to do. He could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in Liverpool.

  “Thou’lt let me sit up in this arm-chair,” said he at length to the woman, who stood, expecting his departure.

  He was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. But, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. She was too glad to be released and go to bed.

  XXXI. HOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT.

  ”To think

  That all this long interminable night,

  Which I have passed in thinking on two words —

  ‘Guilty’ — ’Not Guilty!’ — like one happy moment

  O’er many a head hath flown unheeded by;

  O’er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss

  Of bright to-morrows — or far happier still,

  With deep breath buried in forgetfulness.

  O all the dismallest images of death

  Did swim before my eyes!”

  — WILSON.

  And now, where was Mary?

  How Job’s heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if he could have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about her; and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her and himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in yielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and find out Will.

  She did not pass that night in bed any more than Job; but she was under a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people.

  She had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he had clutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as he threaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange by-streets. She came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding things for her.

  He led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of the street, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of that bustling back-street. He pulled her into the house-place; and relieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way, he exclaimed —

  “There!” giving a great slap of one hand on her back.

  The room was light and bright, and roused Mary (perhaps the slap on her back might help a little too), and she felt the awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who had been moving about the fireplace on her entrance. The boatman took it very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while he looked at Mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and half defying, as if daring her to escape.

  The old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be told who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously; but, as she looked in amazement, the girl’s cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over her eyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the floor.

  Both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while his wife pattered away for some cold fresh water. She threw it straight over Mary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained closed, and the face as pale as ashes.

  “Who is she, Ben?” asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting, powerless hands.

  “How should I know?” answered her husband gruffly.

  “Well-a-well!” (in a soothing tone, such as you use to irritated children), and as if half to herself, “I only thought you might, you know, as you brought her home. Poor thing! we must not ask aught about her, but that she needs help. I wish I’d my salts at home, but I lent ‘em to Mrs. Burton, last Sunday in church, for she could not keep awake through the sermon. Dear-a-me, how white she is!”

  “Here! you hold her up a bit,” said her husband.

  She did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for his short, sharp interruptions as she went on; and, indeed, to her old, loving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and diamonds, for he had been the husband of her youth; and even he, rough and crabbed as he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, although not for worlds, if he could have helped it, would he have shown any of the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside.

  “What’s the old fellow after?” said she, bending over Mary, so as to accommodate the drooping head. “Taking my pen, as I’ve had for better nor five year. Bless us, and save us! he’s burning it! Ay, I see now, he’s his wits about him; burnt feathers is always good for a faint. But they don’t bring her round, poor wench! Now what’s he after next? Well! he is a bright one, my old man! That I never thought of that, to be sure!” exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of smuggled spirits, labelled “Golden Wasser,” from a corner cupboard in their little room.

  “That’ll do!” said she, as the dose he poured into Mary’s open mouth made her start and cough. “Bless the man. It’s just like him to be so tender and thoughtful!”

  “Not a bit!” snarled he, as he was relieved by Mary’s returning colour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze; “not a bit. I never was such a fool afore.”

  His wife helped Mary to rise, and placed her in a chair.

  “All’s right, now, young woman?” asked the boatman anxiously.

  “Yes, sir, and thank you. I’m sure, sir, I don’t know rightly how to thank you,” faltered Mary softly forth.

  “Be hanged to you and your thanks.” And he shook himself, took his pipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wife sorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within her doors.

  Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise, with the intention of going away, — where she knew not.

  “Nay! nay! whoe’er thou be’st, thou’rt not fit to go out into the street. Perhaps” (sinking her voice a little) “thou’rt a bad one; I almost misdoubt thee, thou’rt so pretty. Well-a-well! it’s the bad ones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never get utterly cast down, they’ve always getten hope in the Lord; it’s the sinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls; it’s them we ought, most of all, to pity and help. She shanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is — worst woman in Liverpool, she shanna. I wished I knew where th’ old man picked her up, that I do.”

  Mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy her hostess in weak, broken sentences.

  “I’m not a bad one, missis, indeed. Your master took me out to see after a ship as had sailed. There was a man in it as might save a life at the trial to-morrow. The captain would not let him come, but he says he’ll come back in the pilot-boat.” She fell to sobbing at the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning with her accustomed —

  “Well-a-well! and he’ll come back, I’m sure. I know he will; so keep up your heart. Don’t fret about it. He’s sure to be back.”

  “Oh! I’m afraid! I’m sore afraid he won’t,” cried Mary, consoled,
nevertheless, by the woman’s assertions, all groundless as she knew them to be.

  Still talking half to herself and half to Mary, the old woman prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. But Mary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. For the spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered each impression received through her senses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while her head ached in a terrible manner.

  She disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly gone. She used quite different expressions to those she intended. So she kept silent, while Mrs. Sturgis (for that was the name of her hostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in Mary’s head. She felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go. But where?

  Presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when he went away. He kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. Mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave the house. But she was mistaken. By-and-by, he said (looking right into the fire, as if addressing it), “Wind’s right against them!”

  “Ay, ay, and is it so?” said his wife, who, knowing him well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy. “Well-a-well, wind changes often at night. Time enough before morning. I’d bet a penny it has changed sin’ thou looked.”

  She looked out of her little window at a weathercock near, glittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor’s wife, she instantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicator seemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort.

  “There’s no one else who can prove what you want at the trial to-morrow, is there?” asked she.