Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл

now that the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily restored her to consciousness.

      Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.

      Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the window was unoccupied.

      ‘They are safe,’ said Margaret.

      ‘All? Are all safe, Margaret?’ asked Mary.

      ‘Ask yon fireman, and he’ll tell you more about it than I can. But I know they’re all safe.’

      The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret’s words.

      ‘Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?’ asked Margaret.

      ‘Let? – why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he’d heard his father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t’other man. We’d all ha’ gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there’s danger.’

      So saying he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all safe and well; but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on Mary’s side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said –

      ‘Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or two for my sake. Do! bless you, there’s a good wench.’

      Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was gone.

      When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question; yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.

      When it was ended he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her.

      Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation, pouted and looked angry.

      The work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say that, owing to the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort the widow, and see the funeral set off.

^* ‘Nobbut’, none but, only. ‘No man sigh evere God no but the oon bigitun sone.’ – WICKLIFFE’S VERSION.

^* ‘Nor’, generally used in Lancashire for ‘than’. ‘They had lever sleep nor be in laundery.’ – DUNBAR.

^† ‘Shut’, quit.

^* ‘Sin’, since. ‘Sin that his lord was twenty yere of age.’ – Prologue to Canterbury Tales.

^* ‘Oud Church’; now the Cathedral of Manchester.

CHAPTER 6

       Poverty and Death

      ‘How little can the rich man know

      Of what the poor man feels,

      When Want, like some dark demon foe,

      Nearer and nearer steals!

      He never tramp’d the weary round,

      A stroke of work to gain,

      And sicken’d at the dreaded sound

      Telling him ’twas in vain.

      Foot-sore, heart-sore, he never came

      Back through the winter’s wind,

      To a dank cellar, there no flame,

      No light, no food, to find.

      He never saw his darlings lie

      Shivering, the grass their bed;

      He never heard that maddening cry,

      “Daddy, a bit of bread!”’

      MANCHESTER SONG

      John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs Carson would not be over-much grieved for the consequences of the fire in their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack; cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs Carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters’ talents. There were happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were homes over which Carsons’ fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them – the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering. There was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother’s mercy. The evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was ‘Love strong as death’; and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney’s most glorious deed. The vices of the poor sometimes astound us here; but when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain.

      As the cold, bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.

      Barton