Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл

      It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make people’s faces quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed, there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.

      Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss Simmonds’, with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into the court.

      ‘Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?’

      ‘To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you’ll take me in). I’ve a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and will not be home till late.’

      ‘Oh, how charming it will be! I’ll help you if you’re backward. Have you much to do?’

      ‘Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there’s three girls beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I’m above a bit behindhand. I’ve the skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I’m sure, to hear first one and then t’other clear up to notice the set of her gown. They weren’t to be misfits, I promise you, though they were in such trouble.’

      ‘Well, Margaret, you’re right welcome, as you know, and I’ll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmonds’.’

      By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things were then lifted en masse to the dresser; and dusting her side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some breadths and began to run them together.

      ‘Who’s it all for, for if you told me I’ve forgotten?’

      ‘Why, for Mrs Ogden as keeps the greengrocer’s shop in Oxford Road. Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she’s fretted sadly for him now he’s dead.’

      ‘Has he left her much to go upon?’ asked Mary, examining the texture of the dress. ‘This is beautifully fine soft bombazine.’

      ‘No, I’m much afeard there’s but little, and there’s several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens.’

      ‘I should have thought girls like them would ha’ made their own gowns,’ observed Mary.

‘So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral; for it’s to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it comforted poor Mrs Ogden to make all the piece o’ work. Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor^* a funeral. They said she’d spend a matter o’ sixty pound on th’ burial.’

      ‘I thought you said she was but badly off,’ said Mary.

      ‘Ay, I know she’s asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th’ undertakers urge her on, you see, and tell her this thing’s usual, and that thing’s only a common mark of respect, and that everybody has t’other thing, till the poor woman has no will o’ her own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person’s gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him who’s stiff and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all.’

‘This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny,’ said Mary. ‘I often wonder why folks wear mourning; it’s not pretty or becoming; and it costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend, who’s been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man, one’s glad enough to get shut^† on him. I cannot see what good comes out o’ wearing mourning.’

      ‘I’ll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for (old Alice calls everything “sent for,” and I believe she’s right). It does do good, though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people (as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to anything but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn’t in liquor. But they cheered up wonderful while I was there, and I asked ’em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and I left ’em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose.’

      ‘I don’t think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice wouldn’t.’

      ‘Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said one day when she found me taking on about something?’

      ‘No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?’

      ‘I can’t tell you, just now; perhaps I may some time.’

      ‘When?’

‘Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never. It’s a fear that sometimes I can’t abide to think about, and sometimes I don’t like to think on anything else. Well, I was fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so she says, “Well, dear, you must mind this, when you’re going to fret and be low about anything – An anxious mind is never a holy mind.” O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin’^* she said that.’

      The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till Mary inquired:

      ‘Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?’

      ‘Why, I do not much think I shall. I’ve thought it over once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan’t, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. I don’t think they can pay, and yet they’re just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. There’s only one thing I dislike making black for, it does so hurt the eyes.’

      Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone, and said:

      ‘You’ll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret’s on the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I’m growing a little blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help me, Lord help me!’

      She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary