Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  There was no change in her father’s position, or in his spectral look. He had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many subjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high, childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet his daughter’s look. And she, when she spoke, or as she moved about, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be her usual self; but while everything was done with a consciousness of purpose, she felt it was impossible.

  In this manner things went on for some days. At night he feebly clambered upstairs to bed; and during those long dark hours Mary heard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day, when they were compressed in silence over his inward woe.

  Many a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his miserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and loved and pitied him more than words could tell.

  By day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner as on that first dreary afternoon. He ate, — but without that relish; and food seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morning his face had caught more of the ghastly foreshadowing of Death.

  The neighbours kept strangely aloof. Of late years John Barton had had a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few who had either known him in his better and happier days, or those to whom he had given his sympathy and his confidence. People did not care to enter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness rendered him moody and stern. And now they contented themselves with a kind inquiry when they saw Mary in her goings-out or in her comings-in. With her oppressing knowledge, she imagined their reserved conduct stranger than it was in reality. She missed Job and Margaret too; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxiety since their acquaintance first began, had been ready with their sympathy.

  But most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had lately enjoyed in having Jem’s tender love at hand every hour of the day, to ward off every wind of heaven, and every disturbing thought.

  She knew he was often hovering about the house; though the knowledge seemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight or sound for the first day or two. On the third day she met him at Job Legh’s.

  They received her with every effort of cordiality; but still there was a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which Mary was morbidly acute; while in Jem’s voice, and eyes, and manner, there was every evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and most trusting love. The trust was shown by his respectful silence on that one point of reserve on which she had interdicted conversation.

  He left Job Legh’s house when she did. They lingered on the step, he holding her hand between both of his, as loth to let her go; he questioned her as to when he should see her again.

  “Mother does so want to see you,” whispered he. “Can you come to see her to-morrow; or when?”

  “I cannot tell,” replied she softly. “Not yet. Wait awhile; perhaps only a little while. Dear Jem, I must go to him, — dearest Jem.”

  The next day, the fourth from Mary’s return home, as she was sitting near the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpse of the last person she wished to see — of Sally Leadbitter!

  She was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and she tapped at the door. John Barton gave an anxious, uneasy side-glance. Mary knew that if she delayed answering the knock, Sally would not scruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she opened the door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring up all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious glances into the interior.

  “Well, Mary Barton! You’re home at last! I heard you’d getten home; so I thought I’d just step over and hear the news.”

  She was bent on coming in, and saw Mary’s preventive design. So she stood on tiptoe, looking over Mary’s shoulders into the room where she suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only the figure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habit of avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on the conversation where Mary chose, and as Mary chose, in whispers.

  “So the old governor is back again, eh? And what does he say to all your fine doings at Liverpool, and before? — you and I know where. You can’t hide it now, Mary, for it’s all in print.”

  Mary gave a low moan — and then implored Sally to change the subject; for unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly unpleasant in the manner in which she was treating it. If they had been alone Mary would have borne it patiently — or she thought, but now she felt almost certain, her father was listening; there was a subdued breathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. But there was no arresting Sally’s curiosity to hear all she could respecting the adventures Mary had experienced. She, in common with the rest of Miss Simmonds’ young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame that Mary had obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety.

  “Nay! there’s no use shunning talking it over. Why! it was in the Guardian — and the Courier — and some one told Jane Hodgson it was even copied into a London paper. You’ve set up heroine on your own account, Mary Barton. How did you like standing witness? Aren’t them lawyers impudent things? staring at one so. I’ll be bound you wished you’d taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered scarf! Now didn’t you, Mary? Speak truth!”

  “To tell the truth, I never thought about it then, Sally. How could

  I?” asked she reproachfully.

  “Oh — I forgot. You were all for that stupid James Wilson. Well! if

  I’ve ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if I don’t pick up

  a better beau than the prisoner. I’ll aim at a lawyer’s clerk, but

  I’ll not take less than a turnkey.”

  Cast down as Mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at the idea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she had really undergone, of looking out for admirers during a trial for murder.

  “I’d no thought to be looking out for beaux, I can assure you, Sally. But don’t let us talk any more about it; I can’t bear to think on it. How is Miss Simmonds? and everybody?”

  “Oh, very well; and by the way, she gave me a bit of a message for you. You may come back to work if you’ll behave yourself, she says. I told you she’d be glad to have you back, after all this piece of business, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. They’d come from Salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least.”

  “Don’t talk so; I cannot come, I can never face Miss Simmonds again.

  And even if I could” — she stopped, and blushed.

  “Ay! I know what you are thinking on. But that will not be this some time, as he’s turned off from the foundry — you’d better think twice afore refusing Miss Simmonds’ offer.”

  “Turned off from the foundry? Jem?” cried Mary.

  “To be sure! didn’t you know it? Decent men were not going to work with a — no! I suppose I mustn’t say it, seeing you went to such trouble to get up an alibi; not that I should think much the worse of a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival — they always do at the theatre.”

  But Mary’s thoughts were with Jem. How good he had been never to name his dismissal to her. How much he had had to endure for her sake!

  “Tell me all about it,” she gasped out.

  “Why, you see, they’ve always swords quite handy at them plays,” began Sally; but Mary, with an impatient shake of her head, interrupted —

  “About Jem — about Jem, I want to know.”

  “Oh! I don’t pretend to know more than is in every one’s mouth: he’s turned away from the foundry, because folk doesn’t think you’ve cleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth to hang him. Old Mr. Carson is savage against judge and jury, and lawyers and all, as I heard.”

  “I must go to him, I must go to him,” repeated Mary, in a hurried manner.

  “He’ll tell you all I’ve said is true, and not a word of lie,” replied Sally. “So I’ll not g
ive your answer to Miss Simmonds, but leave you to think twice about it. Good afternoon!”

  Mary shut the door, and turned into the house.

  Her father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude.

  Only his head was more bowed towards the ground.

  She put on her bonnet to go to Ancoats; for see, and question, and comfort, and worship Jem, she must.

  As she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he spoke — voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but his head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she stooped down; and after a moment’s pause, he repeated the words —

  “Tell Jem Wilson to come here at eight o’clock to-night.”

  Could he have overheard her conversation with Sally Leadbitter? They had whispered low, she thought. Pondering on this, and many other things, she reached Ancoats.

  XXXV. “FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES.”

  ”Oh, had he lived,

  Replied Rusilla, never penitence

  Had equalled his! full well I knew his heart,

  Vehement in all things. He would on himself

  Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height

  Of fleshy suffering, — yea, which being told,

  With its portentous rigour should have made

  The memory of his fault o’erpowered and lost,

  In shuddering pity and astonishment,

  Fade like a feeble horror.”

  — SOUTHEY’S Roderick.

  As Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons lived, Jem overtook her. He came upon her suddenly, and she started. “You’re going to see mother?” he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his, and slackening his pace.

  “Yes, and you too. O Jem, is it true? tell me.”

  She felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half-expressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before he answered her.

  “Darling, it is; it’s no use hiding it — if you mean that I’m no longer to work at Duncombe’s foundry. It’s no time (to my mind) to have secrets from each other, though I did not name it yesterday, thinking you might fret. I shall soon get work again, never fear.”

  “But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were innocent?”

  “It was not just to say turned off, though I don’t think I could have well stayed on. A good number of the men managed to let out they should not like to work under me again; there were some few who knew me well enough to feel I could not have done it, but more were doubtful; and one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what they thought.”

  “O Jem! what a shame!” said Mary, with mournful indignation.

  “Nay, darling! I’m not for blaming them. Poor fellows like them have nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it’s fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil and taint.”

  “But you — what could they get but good from you? They might have known you by this time.”

  “So some do; the overlooker, I’m sure, would know I’m innocent.

  Indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk

  with old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought it might be better if I left

  Manchester for a bit; they’d recommend me to some other place.”

  But Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her words —

  “They might have known thee better, Jem.”

  Jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened ones. After a minute or two, he asked —

  “Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee sore to quit the old smoke-jack?”

  “With thee?” she asked, in a quiet, glancing way.

  “Ay, lass! Trust me, I’ll never ask thee to leave Manchester while I’m in it. Because I have heard fine things of Canada; and our overlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there. Thou knowest where Canada is, Mary?”

  “Not rightly — not now, at any rate; — but with thee, Jem,” her voice sunk to a soft, low whisper, “anywhere” —

  What was the use of a geographical description?

  “But father!” said Mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence with the one sharp discord in her present life.

  She looked up at her lover’s grave face; and then the message her father had sent flashed across her memory.

  “O Jem, did I tell you? Father sent word he wished to speak with you. I was to bid you come to him at eight to-night. What can he want, Jem?”

  “I cannot tell,” replied he. “At any rate, I’ll go. It’s no use troubling ourselves to guess,” he continued, after a pause for a few minutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down the by-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began. “Come and see mother, and then I’ll take thee home, Mary. Thou wert all in a tremble when first I came up to thee; thou’rt not fit to be trusted home by thyself,” said he, with fond exaggeration of her helplessness.

  Yet a little more lovers’ loitering! a few more words, in themselves nothing — to you nothing — but to those two, what tender passionate language can I use to express the feelings which thrilled through that young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables made dear and lovely through life by that hour’s low-whispered talk.

  It struck the half-hour past seven.

  “Come and speak to mother; she knows you’re to be her daughter,

  Mary, darling.”

  So they went in. Jane Wilson was rather chafed at her son’s delay in returning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her in ignorance of his dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way to prepare some little pleasure, some little comfort for those she loved; and if they, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper time to enjoy her preparation, she worked herself up into a state of fretfulness which found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her care appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be the atmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing a feeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the “stalled ox,” which, though an effect and proof of careful love, has been the cause of so much disturbance.

  Mrs. Wilson at first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over the increasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son’s tea.

  The door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proud smiles, Mary Barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, with eyelids veiling the happy light of her eyes — there was around the young couple a radiant atmosphere — a glory of happiness.

  Could his mother mar it? Could she break into it with her Martha-like cares? Only for one moment did she remember her sense of injury, — her wasted trouble, — and then her whole woman’s heart heaving with motherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received Mary into them, as shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured in her ear —

  “Bless thee, Mary, bless thee! Only make him happy, and God bless thee for ever!”

  It took some of Jem’s self-command to separate those whom he so much loved, and who were beginning, for his sake, to love one another so dearly. But the time for his meeting John Barton drew on: and it was a long way to his house.

  As they walked briskly thither they hardly spoke; though many thoughts were in their minds.

  The sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of twilight was over all; and when they opened the door, Jem could hardly perceive the objects within by the waning light of day, and the flickering fire-blaze.

  But Mary saw all at a glance.

  Her eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect of the room, saw instantly what was unusual, — saw and understood it all.

  Her father was standing behind his habitual chair; holding by the back of it as if for support. And opposite to him there stood Mr. Carson; the dark outline of his stern figure looming large against the light of the fire in that little room.

  Behind her father sat Job Legh, his head in his hands, and resting his el
bow on the little family table, listening evidently; but as evidently deeply affected by what he heard.

  There seemed to be some pause in the conversation. Mary and Jem stood at the half-open door, not daring to stir; hardly to breathe.

  “And have I heard you aright?” began Mr. Carson, with his deep quivering voice. “Man! have I heard you aright? Was it you, then, that killed my boy? my only son?” — (he said these last few words almost as if appealing for pity, and then he changed his tone to one more vehement and fierce). “Don’t dare to think that I shall be merciful, and spare you, because you have come forward to accuse yourself. I tell you I will not spare you the least pang the law can inflict, — you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have none from me.”

  “I did not ask for any,” said John Barton, in a low voice.

  “Ask, or not ask, what care I? You shall be hanged — hanged — man!” said he, advancing his face, and repeating the word with slow, grinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of the bitterness of his soul into it.

  John Barton gasped, but not with fear. It was only that he felt it terrible to have inspired such hatred, as was concentrated into every word, every gesture of Mr. Carson’s.

  “As for being hanged, sir, I know it’s all right and proper. I dare say it’s bad enough; but I tell you what, sir,” speaking with an outburst, “if you’d hanged me the day after I’d done the deed, I would have gone down on my knees and blessed you. Death! Lord, what is it to Life? To such a life as I’ve been leading this fortnight past. Life at best is no great thing; but such a life as I have dragged through since that night,” he shuddered at the thought. “Why, sir, I’ve been on the point of killing myself this many a time to get away from my own thoughts. I didn’t! and I’ll tell you why. I didn’t know but that I should be more haunted than ever with the recollection of my sin. Oh! God above only can tell the agony with which I’ve repented me of it, and part perhaps because I feared He would think I were impatient of the misery He sent as punishment — far, far worse misery than any hanging, sir.”