Elizabeth Gaskell - Mary Barton

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary’s heart was too full to value either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused in their delivery and said, in a more sympathetic tone than she had hitherto used:

‘Do tell me, Mary, what’s fretting you so? You know I never could abide to see you cry.’

‘George Wilson’s dropped down dead this afternoon,’ said Mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew.

‘Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow, as the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much; there’s better folk than him left behind. Is th’ canting old maid as was his sister alive yet?’

‘I don’t know who you mean,’ said Mary sharply; for she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.

‘Come, Mary, don’t be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then; will that please you? I haven’t seen her hereabouts lately.’

‘No, she’s left living here. When the twins died, she thought she could, maybe, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live with them.’

‘Well, good go with her. I’d no fancy for her, and I’d no fancy for her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee.’

‘She wasn’t a Methodee; she was Church o’ England.’

‘Well, well, Mary, you’re very particular. You know what I meant. Look, who is this letter from?’ holding up Henry Carson’s letter.

‘I don’t know, and don’t care,’ said Mary, turning very red.

‘My eye! as if I didn’t know you did know and did care.’

‘Well, give it me,’ said Mary impatiently, and anxious in her present mood for her visitor’s departure.

Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent to her.

‘You must tell him I can’t come,’ said Mary, raising her eyes at last. ‘I have said I won’t meet him while father is away, and I won’t.’

‘But, Mary, he does so look for you. You’d be quite sorry for him, he’s so put out about not seeing you. Besides, you go when your father’s at home, without letting on * to him, and what harm would there be in going now?’

‘Well, Sally, you know my answer, I won’t; and I won’t.’

‘I’ll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o’ sending me; he’d maybe find you not so hard to deal with.’

Mary flashed up.

‘If he dares to come here while father’s away, I’ll call the neighbours in to turn him out, so don’t be putting him up to that.’

‘Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame of?’

‘Hush, Sally! that’s Margaret Jennings at the door.’

And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job Legh to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain firelight you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind person.

‘Well, I must go, Mary,’ said Sally. ‘And that’s your last word?’

‘Yes, yes; good-night.’ She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome visitor – unwelcome at that time at least.

‘O Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?’

‘Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they’ve been sore tried lately. Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it’s easy, and there’s no terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it’s very hard. Poor George! he were such a hearty-looking man.’

‘Margaret,’ said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend, ‘thou’rt very blind to-night, arn’t thou? Is it wi’ crying? Your eyes are so swollen and red.’

‘Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was last night?’

‘No; where?’

‘Look here.’ She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened her large grey eyes with astonishment.

‘I’ll tell you all and how about it. You see there’s a gentleman lecturing on music at th’ Mechanics’, and he wants folk to sing his songs. Well, last night the counter got a sore throat and couldn’t make a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good word for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think I was frightened, but I thought, Now or never, and said I’d do my best. So I tried o’er the songs wi’ th’ lecturer, and then th’ managers told me I were to make myself decent and be there by seven.’

‘And what did you put on?’ asked Mary. ‘Oh, why didn’t you come in for my pretty pink gingham?’

‘I did think on’t; but you had na come home then. No! I put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, I went at seven. I couldn’t see to read my music, but I took th’ paper in wi’ me, to ha’ something to do wi’ my fingers. Th’ folks’ heads danced, as I stood as right afore ’em all as if I’d been going to play at ball wi’ ’em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine weren’t the first song, and th’ music sounded like a friend’s voice telling me to take courage. So, to make a long story short, when it were all o’er th’ lecturer thanked me, and th’ managers said as how there never was a new singer so applauded (for they’d clapped and stamped after I’d done, till I began to wonder how many pair o’ shoes they’d get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). So I’m to sing again o’ Thursday; and I got a sovereign last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th’ lecturer is at th’ Mechanics’.’

‘Well, Margaret, I’m right glad to hear it.’

‘And I don’t think you’ve heard the best bit yet. Now that a way seemed open to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did please God to make me blind, I thought I’d tell grandfather. I only tell’d him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I thought I’d not send him to bed wi’ a heavy heart; but this morning I telled him all.’

‘And how did he take it?’

‘He’s not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like.’

‘I wonder at that; I’ve noticed it in your ways ever since you telled me.’

‘Ay, that’s it! If I’d not telled you, and you’d seen me every day, you’d not ha’ noticed the little mite o’ difference fra’ day to day.’

‘Well, but what did your grandfather say?’

‘Why, Mary,’ said Margaret, half smiling, ‘I’m a bit loth to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather’s ways like me, yo’d think it strange. He was taken by surprise, and he said: “Damn yo!” Then he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while I telled him all about it; how I’d feared, and how downcast I’d been; and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th’ Lord’s will; and how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were talking, I saw great big tears come dropping on th’ book; but in course I never let on that I saw ’em. Dear grandfather! and all day long he’s been quietly moving things out o’ my way, as he thought might trip me up, and putting things in my way as he thought I might want; never knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks I’m out and out blind, I guess – as I shall be soon.’

Margaret sighed in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her friend’s musical début , which tended to bring out more distinctly how successful it had been.