Mary Barton

  XVII. BARTON'S NIGHT-ERRAND,

  "Mournful is't to say Farewell, Though for few brief hours we part; In that absence, who can tell What may come to wring the heart!" --ANONYMOUS.

  The events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. OnThursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in the midst of some littlebustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson. Helooked strange, at least it was strange to see any differentexpression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. Hehad a paper parcel in his hand. He came in, and sat down, morequietly than usual.

  "Why, Will! what's the matter with you? You seem quite cut up aboutsomething!"

  "And I am, Mary! I'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to saygood-bye to them they love."

  "Good-bye! Bless me, Will, that's sudden, isn't it?"

  Mary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fireplace. Shehad always liked Will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring ofsisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel tohear of his approaching departure.

  "It's very sudden, isn't it?" said she, repeating the question.

  "Yes, it's very sudden," said he dreamily. "No, it isn't"; rousinghimself to think of what he was saying. "The captain told me in afortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very suddenon me, I had got so fond of you all."

  Mary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised.She spoke again.

  "But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since youknocked at Jane Wilson's door, and I was there, you remember.Nothing like a fortnight!"

  "No; I know it's not. But, you see, I got a letter this afternoonfrom Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next; andit's long since I promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him thatlives at Kirk-Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that I'd goand see him and his, this time of coming ashore. I must go. I'msorry enough; but I mustn't slight poor mother's friends. I mustgo. Don't try to keep me," said he, evidently fearing the strengthof his own resolution, if hard pressed by entreaty.

  "I'm not a-going, Will. I dare say you're right; only I can't helpfeeling sorry you're going away. It seems so flat to be leftbehind. When do you go?"

  "To-night. I shan't see you again."

  "To-night! and you go to Liverpool! Maybe you and father will gotogether. He's going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool."

  "No! I'm walking; and I don't think your father will be up towalking."

  "Well! and why on earth are you walking? You can get by railway forthree-and-sixpence."

  "Ay, but Mary! (thou mustn't let out what I'm going to tell thee) Ihaven't got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence left, at least,not here; before I came I gave my landlady enough to carry me to theisland and back, and maybe a trifle for presents, and I brought therest here; and it's all gone but this," jingling a few coppers inhis hand.

  "Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile," added he,as he saw she looked grave and sorry. "It's a fine clear night, andI shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails.Where's your father going? To Glasgow did you say? Perhaps he andI may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat hassailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet.What's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as badthere as here, folk say."

  "No; he knows that," answered Mary sadly. "I sometimes think he'llnever get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's veryhard to keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to seawith you. It would be getting away from bad news at any rate; andnow, there's hardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but hassomething sad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as adelegate from his Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He'sstarting this evening."

  Mary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was veryflat to be left alone.

  "You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say;you don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?" asked theyoung sailor anxiously.

  "No!" replied Mary, smiling a little; "she's the only one I know, Ibelieve, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears ablessing sometimes; she was so down-hearted when she dreaded it, andnow she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No!Margaret's happy, I do think."

  "I could almost wish it had been otherwise," said Will thoughtfully."I could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if shehad been in trouble."

  "And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?" askedMary.

  "Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better than I am! And hervoice! When I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in myheart, it seems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as itwould be to ask an angel from heaven."

  Mary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression,at the idea of Margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even toher dressmaking imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wingswould be fastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellowprint.

  Will laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's prettymerry laugh. Then he said--

  "Ay, you may laugh, Mary: it only shows you've never been inlove."

  In an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to hersoft grey eyes. She that was suffering so much from the doubtsarising from love! It was unkind of him. He did not notice herchange of look and of complexion. He only noticed that she wassilent, so he continued--

  "I thought--I think, that when I come back from this voyage, I willspeak. It's my fourth voyage in the same ship and with the samecaptain, and he's promised he'll make me a second mate after thistrip; then I shall have something to offer Margaret; and hergrandfather, and Aunt Alice, shall live with her, and keep her frombeing lonesome while I'm at sea. I'm speaking as if she cared forme, and would marry me; d'ye think she does care at all for me,Mary?" asked he anxiously.

  Mary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but shedid not feel as if she had any right to give it. So she said--

  "You must ask Margaret, not me, Will; she's never named your name tome." His countenance fell. "But I should say that was a good signfrom a girl like her. I've no right to say what I think; but, if Iwas you, I would not leave her now without speaking."

  "No! I cannot speak! I have tried. I've been in to wish themgood-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. I could say nought ofwhat I'd planned to say; and I never thought of being so bold as tooffer her marriage till I'd been my next trip, and been made mate.I could not even offer her this box," said he, undoing his paperparcel and displaying a gaudily ornamented accordion "I longed tobuy her something, and I thought, if it were something in the musicline, she would maybe fancy it more. So, will you give it to her,Mary, when I'm gone? and, if you can slip in something tender,--something, you know, of what I feel--maybe she would listen to you,Mary."

  Mary promised that she would do all that he asked.

  "I shall be thinking on her many and many a night, when I'm keepingmy watch in mid-sea; I wonder if she will ever think on me when thewind is whistling, and the gale rising. You'll often speak of me toher, Mary? And if I should meet with any mischance, tell her howdear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of onewho loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt Alice. Dear oldaunt! you and Margaret will often go and see her, won't you? She'ssadly failed since I was last ashore. And so good as she has been!When I lived with her, a little wee chap, I used to be wakened bythe neighbours knocking her up; this one was ill, and that body'schild was restless; and for as tired as ever she might be, she wouldbe up and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day'swash afore her next morning. Them were happy times! How pleased Iused to be when she would take me into the fields with her to gatherherbs! I've tasted tea in China since then, but it wasn't half sogood as the herb tea she used to make for me o' Sunday nights. Andshe knew such a dea
l about plants and birds, and their ways. Sheused to tell me long stories about her childhood, and we used toplan how we would go some time, please God (that was always herword), and live near her old home beyond Lancaster; in the verycottage where she was born, if we could get it. Dear! and howdifferent it is! Here is she still in a back street o' Manchester,never likely to see her own home again; and I, a sailor, off forAmerica next week. I wish she had been able to go to Burton onceafore she died."

  "She would maybe have found all sadly changed," said Mary, thoughher heart echoed Will's feeling.

  "Ay! ay! I dare say it's best. One thing I do wish though, and Ihave often wished it when out alone on the deep sea, when even themost thoughtless can't choose but think on th' past and th' future;and that is, that I'd never grieved her. O Mary! many a hasty wordcomes sorely back on the heart when one thinks one shall never seethe person whom one has grieved again!"

  They both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started.

  "That's father's step. And his shirt's not ready!"

  She hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost time.

  John Barton came in. Such a haggard and wildly anxious-looking man,Will thought he had never seen. He looked at Will, but spoke noword of greeting or welcome.

  "I'm come to bid you good-bye," said the sailor, and would in hissociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. But John answeredabruptly--

  "Good-bye to ye, then."

  There was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire toget rid of the visitor, and Will accordingly shook hands with Mary,and looked at John, as if doubting how far to offer to shake handswith him. But he met with no answering glance or gesture, so hewent his way, stopping for an instant at the door to say--

  "You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's the day we shall hoistour blue Peter, Jack Harris says."

  Mary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed likeshutting out a friendly sunbeam. And her father! what could be thematter with him? He was so restless; not speaking (she wished hewould), but starting up and then sitting down, and meddling with herirons; he seemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. Shewondered if he disliked Will being there; or if he were vexed tofind that she had not got further on with her work. At last shecould bear his nervous way no longer, it made her equally nervousand fidgety. She would speak.

  "When are you going, father? I don't know the time o' the trains."

  "And why shouldst thou know?" replied he gruffly. "Meddle with thyironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concernthee."

  "I wanted to get you something to eat first," answered she gently.

  "Thou dost not know that I'm larning to do without food," said he.

  Mary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No! he lookedsavagely grave.

  She finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food shewas sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in thedegrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability wasincreased, if not caused by want of food.

  He had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate toGlasgow, and out of this he had given Mary a few shillings in themorning; so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now hercare was to cook it so as to tempt him.

  "If thou'rt doing that for me, Mary, thou mayst spare thy labour. Itelled thee I were not for eating."

  "Just a little bit, father, before starting," coaxed Maryperseveringly.

  At that instant who should come in but Job Legh. It was not oftenhe came, but when he did pay visits, Mary knew from past experiencethey were anything but short. Her father's countenance fell backinto the deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the soundof Mary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. He became againrestless and fidgety, scarcely giving Job Legh the greetingnecessary for a host in his own house. Job, however, did not standupon ceremony. He had come to pay a visit, and was not to bedaunted from his purpose. He was interested in John Barton'smission to Glasgow, and wanted to hear all about it; so he sat down,and made himself comfortable, in a manner that Mary saw was meant tobe stationary.

  "So thou'rt off to Glasgow, art thou?" he began his catechism.

  "Ay."

  "When art starting?"

  "To-night."

  "That I knowed. But by what train?"

  That was just what Mary wanted to know; but what apparently herfather was in no mood to tell. He got up without speaking, and wentupstairs. Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he was putout, and feared Job would see it too! But no! Job seemedimperturbable. So much the better, and perhaps she could cover herfather's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend.

  So, half-listening to her father's movements upstairs (passionate,violent, restless motions they were), and half-attending to JobLegh, she tried to pay him all due regard.

  "When does thy father start, Mary?"

  That plaguing question again.

  "Oh! very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of supper. Is Margaretvery well?"

  "Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and keep Alice Wilsoncompany for an hour or so this evening: as soon as she thinks hernephew will have started for Liverpool; for she fancies the oldwoman will feel a bit lonesome. Th' Union is paying for yourfather, I suppose?"

  "Yes, they've given him a sovereign. You're one of th' Union, Job?"

  "Ay! I'm one, sure enough; but I'm but a sleeping partner in theconcern. I were obliged to become a member for peace, else I don'tgo along with 'em. Yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly,for differing with them. Well! there's no harm in that. But thenthey won't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force meto be as wise as they are; now that's not British liberty, I say.I'm forced to be wise according to their notions, else theyparsecute me, and sarve me out."

  What could her father be doing upstairs? Tramping and bangingabout. Why did he not come down? Or why did not Job go? Thesupper would be spoilt.

  But Job had no notion of going.

  "You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I could get; Ithink half a loaf is better than no bread. I would work for lowwages rather than sit idle and starve. But, comes the Trades'Union, and says, 'Well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry youout of your life. Will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?'Now clemming is a quiet death, and worrying isn't, so I chooseclemming, and come into th' Union. But I'd wish they'd leave mefree, if I am a fool."

  Creak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming down at last.

  Yes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made upfor his journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. He went upto Job, and, more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye.He then turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade herfarewell.

  "Oh! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay onemoment."

  But he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed him to the door,her eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him.He was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of thecourt, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly,and took her in his arms.

  "God bless thee, Mary!--God in heaven bless thee, poor child!" Shethrew her arms round his neck.

  "Don't go yet, father; I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eatsome supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!"

  "No," he said, faintly and mournfully. "It's best as it is. Icouldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home.I must be moving."

  So saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her oncemore, set off on his fierce errand.

  And he was out of sight! She did not know why, but she had neverbefore felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned in to Job, whosat there still. Her father, as soon as he was out of sight,slackened his pace, and fell into that heavy listless step whichtold, as well as words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. Itwas getting dark, but he loitered on, returning no greeting to anyone
.

  A child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running on littleTom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. He followed thesound of the wail, that might have been HIS, and found a poor littlemortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up histhoughts to the single want, "Mammy, mammy." With tender address,John Barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patiencehe gathered fragments of meaning from the half-spoken words whichcame mingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. So, aidedby inquiries here and there from a passer-by, he led and carried thelittle fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him,but now received him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent Irishblessing. When John heard the words of blessing, he shook his headmournfully and turned away to retrace his steps.

  Let us leave him.

  Mary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and sat on,trying to listen to Job, who was more inclined to talk than usual.She had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as tobe able to offer him her father's rejected supper; and she eventried to eat herself. But her heart failed her. A leaden weightseemed to hang over her; a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhapsonly an excess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the twodepartures which had taken place that afternoon.

  She wondered how long Job Legh would sit. She did not like puttingdown her work, and crying before him, and yet she had never in herlife longed so much to be alone in order to indulge in a good heartyburst of tears.

  "Well, Mary," she suddenly caught him saying, "I thought you'd be abit lonely to-night; and as Margaret were going to cheer th' oldwoman, I said I'd go and keep th' young un company; and a verypleasant chatty evening we've had; very. Only I wonder as Margaretis not come back."

  "But perhaps she is," suggested Mary.

  "No, no, I took care o' that. Look ye here!" and he pulled out thegreat house-key. "She'll have to stand waiting i' th' street, andthat I'm sure she wouldn't do, when she knew where to find me."

  "Will she come back by hersel?" asked Mary.

  "Ay. At first I were afraid o' trusting her, and I used to followher a bit behind; never letting on, of course. But, bless you! shegoes along as steadily as can be; rather slow to be sure, and herhead a bit on one side, as if she were listening. And it's realbeautiful to see her cross the road. She'll wait above a bit tohear that all is still; not that she's so dark as not to see a coachor a cart like a big black thing, but she can't rightly judge howfar off it is by sight, so she listens. Hark! that's her!"

  Yes; in she came, with her usually calm face all tear-stained andsorrow-marked.

  "What's the matter, my wench?" said Job hastily.

  "O grandfather! Alice Wilson's so bad!" She could say no more forher breathless agitation. The afternoon, and the parting with Will,had weakened her nerves for any after-shock.

  "What is it? Do tell us, Margaret!" said Mary, placing her in achair, and loosening her bonnet-strings.

  "I think it's a stroke o' the palsy. Any rate she has lost the useof one side."

  "Was it afore Will set off?" asked Mary.

  "No, he were gone before I got there," said Margaret; "and she weremuch about as well as she has been for many a day. She spoke a bit,but not much; but that were only natural, for Mrs. Wilson likes tohave the talk to hersel, you know. She got up to go across theroom, and then I heard a drag wi' her leg, and presently a fall, andMrs. Wilson came running, and set up such a cry! I stopped wi'Alice, while she fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, toanswer me, though she tried, I think."

  "Where was Jem? Why didn't he go for the doctor?"

  "He were out when I got there, and he never came home while Istopped."

  "Thou'st never left Mrs. Wilson alone wi' poor Alice?" asked Jobhastily.

  "No, no," said Margaret. "But oh! grandfather, it's now I feel howhard it is to have lost my sight. I should have so loved to nurseher; and I did try, until I found I did more harm than good. Ograndfather; if I could but see!"

  She sobbed a little; and they let her give that ease to her heart.Then she went on--

  "No! I went round by Mrs. Davenport's, and she were hard at work;but, the minute I told my errand, she were ready and willing to goto Jane Wilson, and stop up all night with Alice."

  "And what does the doctor say?" asked Mary.

  "Oh! much what all doctors say: he puts a fence on this side, anda fence on that, for fear he should be caught tripping in hisjudgment. One moment he does not think there's much hope--but whilethere is life there is hope! th' next he says he should think shemight recover partial--but her age is again her. He's ordered herleeches to her head."

  Margaret having told her tale, leant back with weariness, both ofbody and mind. Mary hastened to make her a cup of tea; while Job,lately so talkative, sat quiet and mournfully silent.

  "I'll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn how she is; andI'll bring word back before I go to work," said Mary.

  "It's a bad job Will's gone," said Job.

  "Jane does not think she knows any one," replied Margaret. "It'sperhaps as well he shouldn't see her now for they say her face issadly drawn. He'll remember her with her own face better, if hedoes not see her again."

  With a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for the night, andMary was left alone in her house, to meditate on the heavy day thathad passed over her head. Everything seemed going wrong. Willgone; her father gone--and so strangely too! And to a place somysteriously distant as Glasgow seemed to be to her! She had felthis presence as a protection against Harry Carson and his threats;and now she dreaded lest he should learn she was alone. Her heartbegan to despair, too, about Jem. She feared he had ceased to loveher; and she--she only loved him more and more for his seemingneglect. And, as if all this aggregate of sorrowful thoughts wasnot enough, here was this new woe, of poor Alice's paralytic stroke.