Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл

was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole – the slanting closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser, with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child’s aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one branching leg, ready for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this, with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton’s home.

      The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things, and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a long whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr and Mrs Wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs Barton’s directions to Mary.

      ‘Run, Mary, dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at Tipping’s (you may get one apiece, that will be fivepence), and see if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of.’

      ‘Say two pounds, missis, and don’t be stingy,’ chimed in the husband.

      ‘Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for Wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it he’ll like, – and Mary’ (seeing the lassie fain to be off), ‘you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread – mind you get it fresh and new – and, and – that’s all, Mary.’

      ‘No, it’s not all,’ said her husband. ‘Thou must get sixpennyworth of rum, to warm the tea; thou’ll get it at the “Grapes”. And thou just go to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just round the corner, under 14 Barber Street’ (this was addressed to his wife); ‘and tell her to come and take her tea with us; she’ll like to see her brother, I’ll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins.’

      ‘If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half-a-dozen, and here’s six of us,’ said Mrs Barton.

      ‘Pooh, pooh, Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely.’

      But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything with Jem.

      Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness; in one corner stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung, and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice’s were kept. Her little bit of crockery-ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which Alice was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbour.

      After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals, and half-green sticks, when Mary knocked.

      ‘Come in,’ said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to come in.

      ‘Is that you, Mary Barton?’ exclaimed she, as the light from the candle streamed on the girl’s face. ‘How you are grown since I used to see you at my brother’s! Come in, lass, come in.’

      ‘Please,’ said Mary, almost breathless, ‘mother says you’re to come to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you’re to make haste, please.’

      ‘I’m sure it’s very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I’ll come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? If she hasn’t I’ll take her some.’

      ‘No, I don’t think she has.’

      Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand – the money-spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white, smoke-flavoured, Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.

      She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very footsore manner as far as John Barton’s. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present, after her humble cellar! She did not think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother.

      And now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs Wilson in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.

      Mrs Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt’s speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife’s face flushed and contracted as if in pain.

      At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, ‘Here’s to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never.’

      It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs Barton put down her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out.

      It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else while