Mary Barton

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  XXXIII. REQUIESCAT IN PACE.

  "Fear no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy wordly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages. --Cymbeline.

  "While day and night can bring delight, Or nature aught of pleasure give; While joys above my mind can move, For thee, and thee alone I live:

  "When that grim foe of joy below Comes in between to make us part, The iron hand that breaks our band, It breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart." --BURNS.

  She was where no words of peace, no soothing hopeful tidings couldreach her; in the ghastly spectral world of delirium. Hour afterhour, day after day, she started up with passionate cries on herfather to save Jem; or rose wildly, imploring the winds and waves,the pitiless winds and waves, to have mercy; and over and over againshe exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonisedentreaties, and fell back powerless, uttering only the wailing moansof despair. They told her Jem was safe, they brought him before hereyes; but sight and hearing were no longer channels of informationto that poor distracted brain, nor could human voice penetrate toher understanding.

  Jem alone gathered the full meaning of some of her strangesentences, and perceived that, by some means or other, she, likehimself, had divined the truth of her father being the murderer.

  Long ago (reckoning time by events and thoughts, and not by clock ordial-plate), Jem had felt certain that Mary's father was HarryCarson's murderer; and although the motive was in some measure amystery, yet a whole train of circumstances (the principal of whichwas that John Barton had borrowed the fatal gun only two daysbefore) had left no doubt in Jem's mind. Sometimes he thought thatJohn had discovered, and thus bloodily resented, the attentionswhich Mr. Carson had paid to his daughter; at others, he believedthe motive to exist in the bitter feuds between the masters andtheir work-people, in which Barton was known to take so keen aninterest. But if he had felt himself pledged to preserve thissecret, even when his own life was the probable penalty, and hebelieved he should fall execrated by Mary as the guilty destroyer ofher lover, how much more was he bound now to labour to prevent anyword of hers from inculpating her father, now that she was his own;now that she had braved so much to rescue him; and now that her poorbrain had lost all guiding and controlling power over her words.

  All that night long Jem wandered up and down the narrow precincts ofBen Sturgis's house. In the little bedroom where Mrs. Sturgisalternately tended Mary, and wept over the violence of her illness,he listened to her ravings; each sentence of which had its ownpeculiar meaning and reference, intelligible to his mind, till herwords rose to the wild pitch of agony, that no one could alleviate,and he could bear it no longer, and stole, sick and miserable,downstairs, where Ben Sturgis thought it his duty to snore away inan arm-chair instead of his bed, under the idea that he should thusbe more ready for active service, such as fetching the doctor torevisit his patient.

  Before it was fairly light, Jem (wide awake, and listening with anearnest attention he could not deaden, however painful its resultsproved) heard a gentle subdued knock at the house door; it was nobusiness of his, to be sure, to open it, but as Ben slept on, hethought he would see who the early visitor might be, and ascertainif there was any occasion for disturbing either host or hostess. Itwas Job Legh who stood there, distinct against the outer light ofthe street.

  "How is she? Eh! poor soul! is that her? No need to ask! Howstrange her voice sounds! Screech! screech! and she so low,sweet-spoken, when she's well! Thou must keep up heart, old boy,and not look so dismal, thysel."

  "I can't help it, Job; it's past a man's bearing to hear such a oneas she is, going on as she is doing; even if I did not care for her,it would cut me sore to see one so young, and--I can't speak of it,Job, as a man should do," said Jem, his sobs choking him.

  "Let me in, will you?" said Job, pushing past him, for all this timeJem had stood holding the door, unwilling to admit Job where hemight hear so much that would be suggestive to one acquainted withthe parties that Mary named.

  "I'd more than one reason for coming betimes. I wanted to hear howyon poor wench was--that stood first. Late last night I got aletter from Margaret, very anxious-like. The doctor says the oldlady yonder can't last many days longer, and it seems so lonesomefor her to die with no one but Margaret and Mrs. Davenport abouther. So I thought I'd just come and stay with Mary Barton, and seeas she's well done to, and you and your mother and Will go and takeleave of old Alice."

  Jem's countenance, sad at best just now, fell lower and lower. ButJob went on with his speech.

  "She still wanders, Margaret says, and thinks she's with her motherat home; but for all that, she should have some kith and kin nearher to close her eyes, to my thinking."

  "Could not you and Will take mother home? I'd follow when"--Jemfaltered out thus far, when Job interrupted--

  "Lad! if thou knew what thy mother has suffered for thee, thou'd notspeak of leaving her just when she's got thee from the grave as itwere. Why, this very night she roused me up, and 'Job,' says she,'I ask your pardon for wakening you, but tell me, am I awake ordreaming? Is Jem proved innocent? O Job Legh! God send I've notbeen only dreaming it!' For thou see'st she can't rightlyunderstand why thou'rt with Mary, and not with her. Ay, ay! I knowwhy; but a mother only gives up her son's heart inch by inch to hiswife, and then she gives it up with a grudge. No, Jem! thou must gowith thy mother just now, if ever thou hopest for God's blessing.She's a widow, and has none but thee. Never fear for Mary! She'syoung, and will struggle through. They are decent people, thesefolk she is with, and I'll watch o'er her as though she was my ownpoor girl, that lies cold enough in London town. I grant ye, it'shard enough for her to be left among strangers. To my mind, JohnBarton would be more in the way of his duty, looking after hisdaughter, than delegating it up and down the country, looking afterevery one's business but his own."

  A new idea and a new fear came into Jem's mind. What if Mary shouldimplicate her father?

  "She raves terribly," said he. "All night long she's been speakingof her father, and mixing up thoughts of him with the trial she sawyesterday. I should not wonder if she'll speak of him as being incourt next thing."

  "I should na wonder, either," answered Job. "Folk in her way saymany and many a strange thing; and th' best way is never to mindthem. Now you take your mother home, Jem, and stay by her till oldAlice is gone, and trust me for seeing after Mary."

  Jem felt how right Job was, and could not resist what he knew to behis duty, but I cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he wasas he stood at the door to take a last fond, lingering look at Mary.He saw her sitting up in bed, her golden hair, dimmed with her oneday's illness, floating behind her, her head bound round with wettedcloths, her features all agitated, even to distortion, with thepangs of her anxiety.

  Her lover's eyes filled with tears. He could not hope. Theelasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by earlysorrows; and now, especially, the dark side of everything seemed tobe presented to him. What if she died, just when he knew thetreasure, the untold treasure he possessed in her love! What if(worse than death) she remained a poor gibbering maniac all her lifelong (and mad people do live to be old sometimes, even under all thepressure of their burden), terror-distracted as she was now, and noone able to comfort her!

  "Jem," said Job, partly guessing the other's feelings by his own."Jem!" repeated he, arresting his attention before he spoke. Jemturned round, the little motion causing the tears to overflow andtrickle down his cheeks. "Thou must trust in God, and leave her inHis hands." He spoke hushed, and low; but the words sank all themore into Jem's heart, and gave him strength to tear himself away.

  He found his mother (notwithstanding that she had but just regainedher child through Mary's instrumentality) half inclined to resenthis having passed the night in anxious devotion to the poor invalid.
She dwelt on the duties of children to their parents (above allothers), till Jem could hardly believe the relative positions theyhad held only yesterday, when she was struggling with andcontrolling every instinct of her nature, only because HE wished it.However, the recollection of that yesterday, with its hair's-breadthbetween him and a felon's death, and the love that had lightened thedark shadow, made him bear with the meekness and patience of atrue-hearted man all the worrying little acerbities of to-day; andhe had no small merit in doing so; for in him, as in his mother, thereaction after intense excitement had produced its usual effect inincreased irritability of the nervous system.

  They found Alice alive, and without pain. And that was all. Achild of a few weeks old would have had more bodily strength; achild of a very few months old, more consciousness of what waspassing before her. But even in this state she diffused anatmosphere of peace around her. True, Will, at first, weptpassionate tears at the sight of her, who had been as a mother tohim, so standing on the confines of life. But even now, as always,loud passionate feeling could not long endure in the calm of herpresence. The firm faith which her mind had no longer power tograsp, had left its trail of glory; for by no other word can I callthe bright happy look which illumined the old earth-worn face. Hertalk, it is true, bore no more that constant earnest reference toGod and His holy Word which it had done in health, and there were nodeathbed words of exhortation from the lips of one so habituallypious. For still she imagined herself once again in the happy,happy realms of childhood; and again dwelling in the lovely northernhaunts where she had so often longed to be. Though earthly sightwas gone away, she beheld again the scenes she had loved from longyears ago! she saw them without a change to dim the old radianthues. The long dead were with her, fresh and blooming as in thosebygone days. And death came to her as a welcome blessing, like asevening comes to the weary child. Her work here was finished, andfaithfully done.

  What better sentence can an emperor wish to have said over his bier?In second childhood (that blessing clouded by a name), she said her"Nunc Dimittis"--the sweetest canticle to the holy.

  "Mother, good-night! Dear mother! bless me once more! I'm verytired, and would fain go to sleep." She never spoke again on thisside heaven.

  She died the day after their return from Liverpool. From that time,Jem became aware that his mother was jealously watching for someword or sign which should betoken his wish to return to Mary. Andyet go to Liverpool he must and would, as soon as the funeral wasover, if but for a simple glimpse of his darling. For Job had neverwritten; indeed, any necessity for his so doing had never enteredhis head. If Mary died, he would announce it personally; if sherecovered, he meant to bring her home with him. Writing was to himlittle more than an auxiliary to natural history; a way of ticketingspecimens, not of expressing thoughts.

  The consequence of this want of intelligence as to Mary's state was,that Jem was constantly anticipating that every person and everyscrap of paper was to convey to him the news of her death. He couldnot endure this state long; but he resolved not to disturb the houseby announcing to his mother his purposed intention of returning toLiverpool, until the dead had been buried forth.

  On Sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears. Will wept asone who would not be comforted.

  The old childish feeling came over him, the feeling of loneliness atbeing left among strangers.

  By-and-by, Margaret timidly stole near him, as if waiting toconsole; and soon his passion sank down to grief, and grief gave wayto melancholy, and though he felt as if he never could be joyfulagain, he was all the while unconsciously approaching nearer to thefull happiness of calling Margaret his own, and a golden thread wasinterwoven even now with the darkness of his sorrow. Yet it was onhis arm that Jane Wilson leant on her return homewards. Jem tookcharge of Margaret.

  "Margaret, I'm bound for Liverpool by the first train to-morrow; Imust set your grandfather at liberty."

  "I'm sure he likes nothing better than watching over poor Mary; heloves her nearly as well as me. But let me go! I have been so fullof poor Alice, I've never thought of it before; I can't do so muchas many a one, but Mary will like to have a woman about her that sheknows. I'm sorry I waited to be reminded, Jem," replied Margaret,with some little self-reproach.

  But Margaret's proposition did not at all agree with her companion'swishes. He found he had better speak out, and put his intention atonce to the right motive; the subterfuge about setting Job Legh atliberty had done him harm instead of good.

  "To tell truth, Margaret, it's I that must go, and that for my ownsake, not your grandfather's. I can rest neither by night nor dayfor thinking on Mary. Whether she lives or dies, I look on her asmy wife before God, as surely and solemnly as if we were married.So being, I have the greatest right to look after her, and I cannotyield it even to"--

  "Her father," said Margaret, finishing his interrupted sentence."It seems strange that a girl like her should be thrown on the bareworld to struggle through so bad an illness. No one seems to knowwhere John Barton is, else I thought of getting Morris to write hima letter telling him about Mary. I wish he was home, that I do!"

  Jem could not echo this wish.

  "Mary's not bad off for friends where she is," said he. "I callthem friends, though a week ago we none of us knew there were suchfolks in the world. But being anxious and sorrowful about the samething makes people friends quicker than anything, I think. She'slike a mother to Mary in her ways; and he bears a good character, asfar as I could learn just in that hurry. We're drawing near home,and I've not said my say, Margaret. I want you to look after mothera bit. She'll not like my going, and I've got to break it to heryet. If she takes it very badly, I'll come back to-morrow night;but if she's not against it very much, I mean to stay till it'ssettled about Mary, one way or the other. Will, you know, will bethere, Margaret, to help a bit in doing for mother."

  Will's being there made the only objection Margaret saw to thisplan. She disliked the idea of seeming to throw herself in his way,and yet she did not like to say anything of this feeling to Jem, whohad all along seemed perfectly unconscious of any love-affair,besides his own, in progress.

  So Margaret gave a reluctant consent.

  "If you can just step up to our house to-night, Jem, I'll put up afew things as may be useful to Mary, and then you can say whenyou'll likely be back. If you come home to-morrow night, and Will'sthere, perhaps I need not step up?"

  "Yes, Margaret, do! I shan't leave easy unless you go some time inthe day to see mother. I'll come to-night, though; and nowgood-bye. Stay! do you think you could just coax poor Will to walka bit home with you, that I might speak to mother by myself?"

  No! that Margaret could not do. That was expecting too great asacrifice of bashful feeling.

  But the object was accomplished by Will's going upstairs immediatelyon their return to the house, to indulge his mournful thoughtsalone. As soon as Jem and his mother were left by themselves, hebegan on the subject uppermost in his mind.

  "Mother!"

  She put her handkerchief from her eyes, and turned quickly round soas to face him where he stood, thinking what best to say. Thelittle action annoyed him, and he rushed at once into the subject.

  "Mother! I am going back to Liverpool to-morrow morning to see howMary Barton is."

  "And what's Mary Barton to thee, that thou shouldst be running afterher in that-a-way?"

  "If she lives, she shall be my wedded wife. If she dies--mother, Ican't speak of what I shall feel if she dies." His voice was chokedin his throat.

  For an instant his mother was interested by his words; and then cameback the old jealousy of being supplanted in the affections of thatson, who had been, as it were, newly born to her, by the escape hehad so lately experienced from danger. So she hardened her heartagainst entertaining any feeling of sympathy; and turned away fromthe face, which recalled the earnest look of his childhood, when hehad come to her in some trouble, sure of help and comfor
t.

  And coldly she spoke, in those tones which Jem knew and dreaded,even before the meaning they expressed was fully shaped.

  "Thou'rt old enough to please thysel. Old mothers are cast aside,and what they've borne forgotten, as soon as a pretty face comesacross. I might have thought of that last Tuesday, when I felt asif thou wert all my own, and the judge were some wild animal tryingto rend thee from me. I spoke up for thee then; but it's allforgotten now, I suppose."

  "Mother! you know all this while, YOU KNOW I can never forget anykindness you've ever done for me; and they've been many. Why shouldyou think I've only room for one love in my heart? I can love youas dearly as ever, and Mary too, as much as man ever loved woman."

  He awaited a reply. None was vouchsafed.

  "Mother, answer me!" said he, at last.

  "What mun I answer? You asked me no question."

  "Well! I ask you this now. To-morrow morning I go to Liverpool tosee her who is as my wife. Dear mother! will you bless me on myerrand? If it please God she recovers, will you take her to you asyou would a daughter?"

  She could neither refuse nor assent.

  "Why need you go?" said she querulously, at length. "You'll begetting in some mischief or another again. Can't you stop at homequiet with me?"

  Jem got up, and walked about the room in despairing impatience. Shewould not understand his feelings. At last he stopped right beforethe place where she was sitting, with an air of injured meekness onher face.

  "Mother! I often think what a good man father was! I've oftenheard you tell of your courting days; and of the accident thatbefell you, and how ill you were. How long is it ago?"

  "Near upon five-and-twenty years," said she, with a sigh.

  "You little thought when you were so ill you should live to havesuch a fine strapping son as I am, did you now?"

  She smiled a little and looked up at him, which was just what hewanted.

  "Thou'rt not so fine a man as thy father was, by a deal," said she,looking at him with much fondness, notwithstanding her depreciatorywords.

  He took another turn or two up and down the room. He wanted to bendthe subject round to his own case.

  "Those were happy days when father was alive!"

  "You may say so, lad! Such days as will never come again to me, atany rate." She sighed sorrowfully.

  "Mother!" said he at last, stopping short, and taking her hand inhis with tender affection, "you'd like me to be as happy a man as myfather was before me, would not you? You'd like me to have some oneto make me as happy as you made father? Now, would you not, dearmother?"

  "I did not make him as happy as I might ha' done," murmured she, ina low, sad voice of self-reproach. "Th' accident gave a jar to mytemper it's never got the better of; and now he's gone where he cannever know how I grieve for having frabbed him as I did."

  "Nay, mother, we don't know that!" said Jem, with gentle soothing."Anyhow, you and father got along with as few rubs as most people.But for HIS sake, dear mother, don't say me nay, now that I come toyou to ask your blessing before setting out to see her, who is to bemy wife, if ever woman is; for HIS sake, if not for mine, love herwhom I shall bring home to be to me all you were to him: and, mother!I do not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart than yours is, in thelong run."

  The hard look left her face; though her eyes were still averted fromJem's gaze, it was more because they were brimming over with tears,called forth by his words, than because any angry feeling yetremained. And when his manly voice died away in low pleadings, shelifted up her hands, and bent down her son's head below the level ofher own; and then she solemnly uttered a blessing.

  "God bless thee, Jem, my own dear lad. And may He bless Mary Bartonfor thy sake."

  Jem's heart leapt up, and from this time hope took the place of fearin his anticipations with regard to Mary.

  "Mother! you show your own true self to Mary, and she'll love you asdearly as I do."

  So with some few smiles, and some few tears, and much earnesttalking, the evening wore away.

  "I must be off to see Margaret. Why, it's near ten o'clock! Couldyou have thought it? Now don't you stop up for me, mother. You andWill go to bed, for you've both need of it. I shall be home in anhour."

  Margaret had felt the evening long and lonely; and was all butgiving up the thoughts of Jem's coming that night, when she heardhis step at the door.

  He told her of his progress with his mother; he told her his hopesand was silent on the subject of his fears.

  "To think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. You'll dateyour start in life as Mary's acknowledged lover from poor AliceWilson's burial day. Well! the dead are soon forgotten!"

  "Dear Margaret! But you're worn-out with your long evening waitingfor me. I don't wonder. But never you, nor any one else, thinkbecause God sees fit to call up new interests, perhaps right out ofthe grave, that therefore the dead are forgotten. Margaret, youyourself can remember our looks, and fancy what we're like."

  "Yes! but what has that to do with remembering Alice?"

  "Why, just this. You're not always trying to think on our faces,and making a labour of remembering; but often, I'll be bound, whenyou're sinking off to sleep, or when you're very quiet and still,the faces you knew so well when you could see, come smiling beforeyou with loving looks. Or you remember them, without striving afterit, and without thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them. Andso it is with them that are hidden from our sight. If they've beenworthy to be heartily loved while alive, they'll not be forgottenwhen dead; it's against nature. And we need no more be upbraidingourselves for letting in God's rays of light upon our sorrow, and nomore be fearful of forgetting them, because their memory is notalways haunting and taking up our minds, than you need to troubleyourself about remembering your grandfather's face, or what thestars were like--you can't forget if you would, what it's such apleasure to think about. Don't fear my forgetting Aunt Alice."

  "I'm not, Jem; not now, at least; only you seemed so full aboutMary."

  "I've kept it down so long, remember. How glad Aunt Alice wouldhave been to know that I might hope to have her for my wife! that'sto say, if God spares her!"

  "She would not have known it, even if you could have told her thislast fortnight--ever since you went away she's been thinking alwaysthat she was a little child at her mother's apron-string. She musthave been a happy little thing; it was such a pleasure to her tothink about those early days, when she lay old and grey on herdeathbed."

  "I never knew any one seem more happy all her life long."

  "Ay! and how gentle and easy her death was! She thought her motherwas near her."

  They fell into calm thought above those last peaceful, happy hours.

  It struck eleven.

  Jem started up.

  "I should have been gone long ago. Give me the bundle. You'll notforget my mother. Good-night, Margaret."

  She let him out and bolted the door behind him. He stood on thesteps to adjust some fastening about the bundle. The court, thestreet, was deeply still. Long ago all had retired to rest on thatquiet Sabbath evening. The stars shone down on the silent desertedstreets, and the clear soft moonlight fell in bright masses, leavingthe steps on which Jem stood in shadow.

  A footfall was heard along the pavement; slow and heavy was thesound. Before Jem had ended his little piece of business, a formhad glided into sight; a wan, feeble figure, bearing with evidentand painful labour a jug of water from a neighbouring pump. It wentbefore Jem, turned up the court at the corner of which he wasstanding, passed into the broad, calm light; and there, with bowedhead, sinking and shrunk body, Jem recognised John Barton.

  No haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in itsinvoluntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, went on with thesame measured clockwork tread until the door of his own house wasreached. And then he disappeared, and the latch fell feebly to, andmade a faint and wavering sound, breaking the solemn silence of then
ight. Then all again was still.

  For a minute or two Jem stood motionless, stunned by the thoughtswhich the sight of Mary's father had called up.

  Margaret did not know he was at home: had he stolen like a thiefby dead of night into his own dwelling? Depressed as Jem had oftenand long seen him, this night there was something different abouthim still; beaten down by some inward storm, he seemed to grovelalong, all self-respect lost and gone.

  Must he be told of Mary's state? Jem felt he must not; and this formany reasons. He could not be informed of her illness without manyother particulars being communicated at the same time, of which itwere better he should be kept in ignorance; indeed, of which Maryherself could alone give the full explanation. No suspicion that hewas the criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind ofany one. Added to these reasons was Jem's extreme unwillingness toface him, with the belief in his breast that he, and none other, haddone the fearful deed.

  It was true that he was Mary's father, and as such had every rightto be told of all concerning her; but supposing he were, and that hefollowed the impulse so natural to a father, and wished to go toher, what might be the consequences? Among the mingled feelings shehad revealed in her delirium, ay, mingled even with the most tenderexpressions of love for her father, was a sort of horror of him; adread of him as a blood-shedder, which seemed to separate him intotwo persons,--one, the father who had dandled her on his knee, andloved her all her life long; the other, the assassin, the cause ofall her trouble and woe.

  If he presented himself before her while this idea of his characterwas uppermost, who might tell the consequence?

  Jem could not, and would not, expose her to any such fearful chance:and to tell the truth, I believe he looked upon her as more his own,to guard from all shadow of injury with most loving care, than asbelonging to any one else in this world, though girt with thereverend name of Father, and guiltless of aught that might havelessened such reverence.

  If you think this account of mine confused, of the half-feelings,half-reasons, which passed through Jem's mind, as he stood gazing onthe empty space, where that crushed form had so lately beenseen,--if you are perplexed to disentangle the real motives, I doassure you it was from just such an involved set of thoughts thatJem drew the resolution to act as if he had not seen that phantomlikeness of John Barton himself, yet not himself.