XXXIV. THE RETURN HOME.
"DIXWELL. Forgiveness! Oh, forgiveness, and a grave! MARY. God knows thy heart, my father! and I shudder To think what thou perchance hast acted. DIXWELL. Oh! MARY. No common load of woe is thine, my father." --ELLIOT'S Kerhonah.
Mary still hovered between life and death when Jem arrived at thehouse where she lay; and the doctors were as yet unwilling tocompromise their wisdom by allowing too much hope to be entertained.But the state of things, if not less anxious, was less distressingthan when Jem had quitted her. She lay now in a stupor, which waspartly disease, and partly exhaustion after the previous excitement.
And now Jem found the difficulty which every one who has watched bya sick-bed knows full well; and which is perhaps more insurmountableto men than it is to women,--the difficulty of being patient, andtrying not to expect any visible change for long, long hours of sadmonotony.
But after a while the reward came. The laboured breathing becamelower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive pain melted away fromthe face, and a languor that was almost peace took the place ofsuffering. She slept a natural sleep; and they stole about ontiptoe, and spoke low, and softly, and hardly dared to breathe,however much they longed to sigh out their thankful relief.
She opened her eyes. Her mind was in the tender state of a latelyborn infant's. She was pleased with the gay but not dazzlingcolours of the paper; soothed by the subdued light; and quitesufficiently amused by looking at all the objects in the room--thedrawing of the ships, the festoons of the curtain, the brightflowers on the painted backs of the chairs--to care for any strongerexcitement. She wondered at the ball of glass, containing variouscoloured sands from the Isle of Wight, or some other place, whichhung suspended from the middle of the little valance over thewindow. But she did not care to exert herself to ask any questions,although she saw Mrs. Sturgis standing at the bedside with some tea,ready to drop it into her mouth by spoonfuls.
She did not see the face of honest joy, of earnestthankfulness,--the clasped hands, the beaming eyes,--the tremblingeagerness of gesture, of one who had long awaited her awakening, andwho now stood behind the curtains watching through some little chinkher every faint motion or if she had caught a glimpse of thatloving, peeping face, she was in too exhausted a state to have takenmuch notice, or have long retained the impression that he she lovedso well was hanging about her, and blessing God for every consciouslook which stole over her countenance.
She fell softly into slumber, without a word having been spoken byany one during that half-hour of inexpressible joy. And again thestillness was enforced by a sign and whispered word, but with eyesthat beamed out their bright thoughts of hope. Jem sat by the sideof the bed, holding back the little curtain, and gazing as if hecould never gaze his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled andso chiselled in its wan outline.
She wakened once more; her soft eyes opened, and met his overbendinglook. She smiled gently, as a baby does when it sees its mothertending its little cot; and continued her innocent, infantine gazeinto his face, as if the sight gave her much unconscious pleasure.But by-and-by a different expression came into her sweet eyes; alook of memory and intelligence; her white flesh flushed thebrightest rosy red, and with feeble motion she tried to hide herhead in the pillow.
It required all Jem's self-control to do what he knew and felt to benecessary, to call Mrs. Sturgis, who was quietly dozing by thefireside; and that done, he felt almost obliged to leave the room tokeep down the happy agitation which would gush out in every feature,every gesture, and every tone.
From that time forward Mary's progress towards health was rapid.
There was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy removalhome. All Jem's duties lay in Manchester. It was his mother'sdwelling-place, and there his plans for life had been to be workedout; plans which the suspicion and imprisonment he had fallen into,had thrown for a time into a chaos, which his presence was requiredto arrange into form. For he might find, in spite of a jury'sverdict, that too strong a taint was on his character for him everto labour in Manchester again. He remembered the manner in whichsome one suspected of having been a convict was shunned by mastersand men, when he had accidentally met with work in their foundry;the recollection smote him now, how he himself had thought it didnot become an honest upright man to associate with one who had beena prisoner. He could not choose but think on that poor humblebeing, with his downcast conscious look; hunted out of the workshop,where he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the looks, andhalf-spoken words, and the black silence of repugnance (worse thanwords to bear), that met him on all sides.
Jem felt that his own character had been attainted; and that to manyit might still appear suspicious. He knew that he could convincethe world, by a future as blameless as his past had been, that hewas innocent. But at the same time he saw that he must havepatience, and nerve himself for some trials; and the sooner thesewere undergone, the sooner he was aware of the place he held inmen's estimation, the better. He longed to have presented himselfonce more at the foundry; and then the reality would drive away thepictures that would (unbidden) come of a shunned man, eyed askanceby all, and driven forth to shape out some new career.
I said every reason "but one" inclined Jem to hasten Mary's returnas soon as she was sufficiently convalescent. That one was themeeting which awaited her at home.
Turn it over as Jem would, he could not decide what was the bestcourse to pursue. He could compel himself to any line of conductthat his reason and his sense of right told him to be desirable; butthey did not tell him it was desirable to speak to Mary, in hertender state of mind and body, of her father. How much would beimplied by the mere mention of his name! Speak it as calmly, and asindifferently as he might, he could not avoid expressing someconsciousness of the terrible knowledge she possessed.
She, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had even been inher gentlest mood; since her illness, her motions, her glances, hervoice were all tender in their languor. It seemed almost a troubleto her to break the silence with the low sounds of her own sweetvoice, and her words fell sparingly on Jem's greedy, listening ear.
Her face was, however, so full of love and confidence, that Jem feltno uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction into which sheoften fell. If she did but love him, all would yet go right; and itwas better not to press for confidence on that one subject whichmust be painful to both.
There came a fine, bright, balmy day. And Mary tottered once moreout into the open air, leaning on Jem's arm, and close to hisbeating heart. And Mrs. Sturgis watched them from her door, with ablessing on her lips, as they went slowly up the street.
They came in sight of the river. Mary shuddered.
"O Jem! take me home. Yon river seems all made of glittering,heaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when I began to be ill."
Jem led her homewards. She dropped her head as searching forsomething on the ground.
"Jem!" He was all attention. She paused for an instant. "When mayI go home? To Manchester, I mean. I am so weary of this place; andI would fain be at home."
She spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as the wordsthemselves would seem to intimate, but in a mournful way, as ifanticipating sorrow even in the very fulfilment of her wishes.
"Darling! we will go whenever you wish; whenever you feel strongenough. I asked Job to tell Margaret to get all in readiness foryou to go there at first. She'll tend you and nurse you. You mustnot go home. Job proffered for you to go there."
"Ah! but I must go home, Jem. I'll try and not fail now in what'sright. There are things we must not speak on" (lowering her voice),"but you'll be really kind if you'll not speak against my goinghome. Let us say no more about it, dear Jem. I must go home, and Imust go alone."
"Not alone, Mary!"
"Yes, alone! I cannot tell you why I ask it. And if you guess, Iknow you well enough to be sure yo
u'll understand why I ask younever to speak on that again to me, till I begin. Promise, dearJem, promise!"
He promised; to gratify that beseeching face, he promised. And thenhe repented, and felt as if he had done ill. Then again he felt asif she were the best judge, and knowing all (perhaps more than evenhe did), might be forming plans which his interference would mar.
One thing was certain! it was a miserable thing to have this awfulforbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each other's thoughts,when eyes were averted, and cheeks blanched, and words stood still,arrested in their flow by some casual allusion.
At last a day, fine enough for Mary to travel on, arrived. She hadwished to go, but now her courage failed her. How could she havesaid she was weary of that quiet house, where even Ben Sturgis'sgrumblings only made a kind of harmonious bass in the concordbetween him and his wife, so thoroughly did they know each otherwith the knowledge of many years! How could she have longed to quitthat little peaceful room where she had experienced such lovingtendence! Even the very check bed-curtains became dear to her underthe idea of seeing them no more. If it was so with inanimateobjects, if they had such power of exciting regret, what were herfeelings with regard to the kind old couple, who had taken thestranger in, and cared for her, and nursed her, as though she hadbeen a daughter? Each wilful sentence spoken in the half-unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with avengingself-reproach to her memory, as she hung about Mrs. Sturgis, withmany tears, which served instead of words to express her gratitudeand love.
Ben bustled about with the square bottle of Goldenwasser in one ofhis hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he went to Mary, Jem,and his wife in succession, pouring out a glass for each, andbidding them drink it to keep their spirits up; but as eachseverally refused, he drank it himself; and passed on to offer thesame hospitality to another, with the like refusal, and the likeresult.
When he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, hecondescended to give his reasons for having done so.
"I cannot abide waste. What's poured out mun be drunk. That's mymaxim." So saying, he replaced the bottle in the cupboard.
It was he who, in a firm commanding voice, at last told Jem and Maryto be off, or they would be too late. Mrs. Sturgis had kept up tillthen; but as they left her house, she could no longer restrain hertears, and cried aloud in spite of her husband's upbraiding.
"Perhaps they'll be too late for the train!" exclaimed she, with adegree of hope, as the clock struck two.
"What! and come back again! No! no! that would never do. We'vedone our part, and cried our cry; it's no use going over the sameground again. I should ha' to give 'em more out of yon bottle whennext parting time came, and them three glasses they ha' made a holein the stuff, I can tell you. Time Jack was back from Hamburg withsome more."
When they reached Manchester, Mary looked very white, and theexpression of her face was almost stern. She was in fact summoningup her resolution to meet her father if he were at home. Jem hadnever named his midnight glimpse of John Barton to human being:but Mary had a sort of presentiment, that wander where he would, hewould seek his home at last. But in what mood she dreaded to think.For the knowledge of her father's capability of guilt seemed to haveopened a dark gulf in his character, into the depths of which shetrembled to look. At one moment she would fain have claimedprotection against the life she must lead, for some time at least,alone with a murderer! She thought of his gloom, before his mindwas haunted by the memory of so terrible a crime; his moody,irritable ways. She imagined the evenings as of old; she, toilingat some work, long after houses were shut, and folks abed; he, moresavage than he had ever been before with the inward gnawing of hisremorse. At such times she could have cried aloud with terror, atthe scenes her fancy conjured up.
But her filial duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many deeds ofkindness done to her as a little child, conquered all fear. Shewould endure all imaginable terrors, although of daily occurrence.And she would patiently bear all wayward violence of temper; morethan patiently would she bear it--pitifully, as one who knew of someawful curse awaiting the blood-shedder. She would watch over himtenderly, as the innocent should watch over the guilty; awaiting thegracious seasons, wherein to pour oil and balm into the bitterwounds.
With the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to the endgives, she approached the house that from habit she still calledhome, but which possessed the holiness of home no longer. "Jem!"said she, as they stood at the entrance to the court, close by JobLegh's door, "you must go in there and wait half-an-hour. Not less.If in that time I don't come back, you go your ways to your mother.Give her my dear love. I will send by Margaret when I want to seeyou."
She sighed heavily.
"Mary! Mary! I cannot leave you. You speak as coldly as if we wereto be nought to each other. And my heart's bound up in you. I knowwhy you bid me keep away, but"--
She put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud agitated tone;she looked into his face with upbraiding love in her eyes, and thenshe said, while her lips quivered, and he felt her whole frametrembling--
"Dear Jem! I often could have told you more of love, if I had notonce spoken out so free. Remember that time, Jem, if ever you thinkme cold. Then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; butnow, though I'm silent on the pain I'm feeling in quitting you, thelove is in my heart all the same. But this is not the time to speakon such things. If I do not do what I feel to be right now, I mayblame myself all my life long! Jem, you promised"--
And so saying she left him. She went quicker than she wouldotherwise have passed over those few yards of ground, for fear heshould still try to accompany her. Her hand was on the latch, andin a breath the door was opened.
There sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning hishead to see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the footstep--the trick of action.
He sat by the fire; the grate, I should say, for fire there wasnone. Some dull grey ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldlychoked up the bars. He had taken the accustomed seat from mereforce of habit, which ruled his automaton body. For all energy,both physical and mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to someof the great citadels of life, there to do battle against theDestroyer, Conscience.
His hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a positionimplying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it wasso faintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance;an attitude requiring some application of outward force to alter--and a blow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient.
And as for his face, it was sunk and worn--like a skull, with yet asuffering expression that skulls have not! Your heart would haveached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged hiscrime.
But crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw hisabashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along she had felt itdifficult (as I may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, ofher father and a blood-shedder. But now it was impossible. He washer father! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatevertheir cause, more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was athing apart, never more to be considered by her.
And tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him inevery way that heart could devise, or hand execute.
She had some money about her, the price of her strange services as awitness; and when the lingering dusk grew on she stole out to effectsome purchases necessary for her father's comfort.
For how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as theywere, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. The housewas bare as when Mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food,or of blessing in any shape.
She came quickly home; but as she passed Job Legh's door, shestopped. Doubtless Jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, hehad given Margaret some good reason for not intruding upon herfriend for this night at least, otherwise Mary would have seen herbefore now.
But to-morro
w,--would she not come in to-morrow? And who so quickas blind Margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence?
She did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to beonce more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door,before she well knew what to say.
"It's Mary Barton! I know her by her breathing! Grandfather, it'sMary Barton!"
Margaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love,affected Mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat downweak and agitated on the first chair she could find.
"Ay, ay, Mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when I saw theelast. Thou'lt give Jem and me good characters for sick nurses, Itrust. If all trades fail, I'll turn to that. Jem's place is forlife, I reckon. Nay, never redden so, lass. You and he know eachother's minds by this time!"
Margaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face.
Job Legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection.
"Thou hast gotten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but whenlast I see thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. Thy nose issharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thouwert before. Lord! child, what's the matter? Art thou going tofaint?"
For Mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt thatnow or never was the time to speak.
"Father's come home!" she said, "but he's very poorly; I never sawhim as he is now before. I asked Jem not to come near him for fearit might fidget him."
She spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner.But they did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she hadthrown out of company being unacceptable; for Job Legh directly putdown some insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, andexclaimed--
"Thy father come home! Why, Jem never said a word of it! Andailing too! I'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. I neverknew any good come of delegating it."
"O Job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. Don't come; not butthat you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed," said she atlast, in despair, seeing Job still persevere in putting away histhings; "you must not come till I send or come for you. Father's inthat strange way, I can't answer for it if he sees strangers.Please don't come. I'll come and tell you every day how he goes on.I must be off now to see after him. Dear Job! kind Job! don't beangry with me. If you knew all, you'd pity me."
For Job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even Margaret's tonewas altered as she wished Mary good-night. Just then she could illbrook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of beingconsidered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as Job hadbeen; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on thelatch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his neck,and kissed him first, and then Margaret. And then, the tears fastfalling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left thehouse, and went back to her home.
There was no change in her father's position, or in his spectrallook. He had answered her questions (but few in number, for so manysubjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high,childish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meethis daughter's look. And she, when she spoke, or as she movedabout, avoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be herusual self; but while everything was done with a consciousness ofpurpose, she felt it was impossible.
In this manner things went on for some days. At night he feeblyclambered upstairs to bed; and during those long dark hours Maryheard 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 hismiserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, andloved and pitied him more than words could tell.
By day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manneras on that first dreary afternoon. He ate,--but without thatrelish; and food seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morninghis face had caught more of the ghastly foreshadowing of Death.
The neighbours kept strangely aloof. Of late years John Barton hadhad a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few whohad either known him in his better and happier days, or those towhom he had given his sympathy and his confidence. People did notcare to enter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulnessrendered him moody and stern. And now they contented themselveswith a kind inquiry when they saw Mary in her goings-out or in hercomings-in. With her oppressing knowledge, she imagined theirreserved conduct stranger than it was in reality. She missed Joband Margaret too; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxietysince their acquaintance first began, had been ready with theirsympathy.
But most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had latelyenjoyed 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 knowledgeseemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight orsound for the first day or two. On the third day she met him at JobLegh's.
They received her with every effort of cordiality; but still therewas a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which Mary wasmorbidly acute; while in Jem's voice, and eyes, and manner, therewas every evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and mosttrusting love. The trust was shown by his respectful silence onthat 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; hequestioned her as to when he should see her again.
"Mother does so want to see you," whispered he. "Can you come tosee 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,--dearestJem."
The next day, the fourth from Mary's return home, as she was sittingnear the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpseof the last person she wished to see--of Sally Leadbitter!
She was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and shetapped at the door. John Barton gave an anxious, uneasyside-glance. Mary knew that if she delayed answering the knock,Sally would not scruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit hadbeen desired, she opened the door, and stood there with the latch inher hand, barring up all entrance, and as much as possibleobstructing all curious glances into the interior.
"Well, Mary Barton! You're home at last! I heard you'd gettenhome; 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 shestood on tiptoe, looking over Mary's shoulders into the room whereshe suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only thefigure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habitof avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on theconversation where Mary chose, and as Mary chose, in whispers.
"So the old governor is back again, eh? And what does he say to allyour 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 themanner in which she was treating it. If they had been alone Marywould have borne it patiently--or she thought, but now she feltalmost certain, her father was listening; there was a subduedbreathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. But therewas no arresting Sally's curiosity to hear all she could respectingthe adventures Mary had experienced. She, in common with the restof Miss Simmonds' young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame thatMary had obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety.
"Nay! there's no use shunning talking it over. Why! it was in theGuardian--and the Courier--and some one told Jane Hodgson it waseven copied into a London paper. You've set up heroine on your ownaccount, Mary Barton. How did you like standing witness? Aren'tthem lawyers impudent things? staring at one so. I'll be bound youwished
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 couldI?" asked she reproachfully.
"Oh--I forgot. You were all for that stupid James Wilson. Well! ifI've ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if I don't pick upa better beau than the prisoner. I'll aim at a lawyer's clerk, butI'll not take less than a turnkey."
Cast down as Mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at theidea, 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 tothink on it. How is Miss Simmonds? and everybody?"
"Oh, very well; and by the way, she gave me a bit of a message foryou. 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 ofbusiness, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. They'dcome 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 thissome time, as he's turned off from the foundry--you'd better thinktwice 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 workwith a--no! I suppose I mustn't say it, seeing you went to suchtrouble to get up an alibi; not that I should think much the worseof a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival--they alwaysdo at the theatre."
But Mary's thoughts were with Jem. How good he had been never toname his dismissal to her. How much he had had to endure for hersake!
"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'vecleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury wereloth 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 hurriedmanner.
"He'll tell you all I've said is true, and not a word of lie,"replied Sally. "So I'll not give your answer to Miss Simmonds, butleave 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, andcomfort, and worship Jem, she must.
As she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, hespoke--voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; buthis head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so shestooped 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 manyother things, she reached Ancoats.