Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл
Читать онлайн книгу.
they ever seen a child o’ their’n die for want o’ food?’ asked Barton, in a low deep voice.
‘I donnot mean,’ continued he, ‘to say as I’m so badly off. I’d scorn to speak for myself; but when I see such men as Davenport there dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I’ve but gotten Mary, and she keeps herself pretty much. I think we’ll ha’ to give up housekeeping; but that I donnot mind.’
And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching, wore away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept on, only roused by the cry of her child now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. The watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr Carson would be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an Infirmary order. At length the grey dawn penetrated even into the dark cellar; Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until Wilson’s return; so, stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to Mr Carson’s.
Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr Carson’s house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight o’clock; for the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day’s begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr Carson’s was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense. But, in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr Carson know he was there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an outdoor man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson. The cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.
The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and, not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So Wilson’s craving turned to sickness, while they chatted on, making the kitchen’s free and keen remarks upon the parlour.
‘How late you were last night, Thomas!’
‘Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms by twelve; and there I was. But it was two o’clock before they called me.’
‘And did you wait all that time in the street?’ asked the housemaid, who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for a bit of gossip.
‘My eye as like! you don’t think I’m such a fool as to catch my death of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha’ done if we’d stopped there. No! I put th’ horses up in th’ stables at th’ Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two by th’ fire. They’re driving a good custom, them, wi’ coachmen. There were five on us, and we’d many a quart o’ ale, and gin wi’ it, to keep out th’ cold.’
‘Mercy on us, Thomas; you’ll get a drunkard at last!’
‘If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be missis’s, and not mine. Flesh and blood can’t sit to be starved to death on a coach-box, waiting for folks as don’t know their own mind.’
A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady’s-maid, now came down with orders from her mistress.
‘Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger’s, and say missis can’t give above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she’s grumbling because trade’s so bad. And she’ll want the carriage at three to go to the lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know.’
‘Ay, ay, I know.’
‘And you’d better all of you mind your P’s and Q’s, for she’s very black this morning. She’s got a bad headache.’
‘It’s a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord! how she and missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that Miss Jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches, and missis could not abide any one to have ’em but herself.’
‘Missis will have her breakfast upstairs, cook, and the cold partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her coffee, and she thinks there’s a roll left, and she would like it well buttered.’
So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the young ladies’ bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly the night before.
In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat the two Mr Carsons, father and son. Both were reading – the father a newspaper, the son a review – while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. The father was a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far more gentlemanly than his father’s. He was the only son, and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud of himself.
The door opened, and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright as a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like Sophy and Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning.
He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away after a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother Harry to go on with his review.
‘I’m the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a great deal of me.’
‘My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you’re the only lady or not.’
‘Yes, papa, you’re pretty good and obedient, I must say that; but I’m sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell him; do you, Harry?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; I expected praise and not blame; for did I not get you that eau de Portugal from town, that you could not meet with at Hughes’, you little ungrateful puss?’
‘Did you? Oh, sweet Harry; you’re as sweet as eau de Portugal yourself; you’re almost as good as papa; but still you know you did go and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he has got.’
‘No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has got the rose, sans reproche: but do you know, little Miss Extravagance, a very small one is half-a-guinea?’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. Papa will give it me, won’t you, dear father? He knows his little daughter can’t live without flowers and scents.’
Mr Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries. Life was not worth having without flowers.
‘Then, Amy,’ said her brother, ‘try and be content with peonies and dandelions.’
‘Oh, you wretch! I don’t call them flowers. Besides, you’re every bit as extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at Yates’, a month ago, and then would