Mary Barton. Элизабет Гаскелл
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principled like Sally herself; nor was there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr Carson gave her so much money. She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing.
Still neither she nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father’s absence.
One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now), Sally met Mr Carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back with all her powers of persuasion. After parting from him she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary’s, and deliver the message and letter.
She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of George Wilson’s sudden death: her old friend, her father’s friend, Jem’s father – all his claims came rushing upon her. Though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last three or four months. It was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson’s death the evening before he set off. And she, the weakly, was left behind, while the strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was spared. Such were the thoughts which came over her.
She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her power to give! for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner.
And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person she wished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her tear-swollen face.
‘Well, I shall tell Mr Carson to-morrow how you’re fretting for him; it’s no more nor he’s doing for you, I can tell you.’
‘For him, indeed!’ said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.
‘Ay, miss, for him! You’ve been sighing as if your heart would break now for several days, over your work; now, aren’t you a little goose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom you love; “How much, Mary?” “This much,” as the children say’ (opening her arms very wide).
‘Nonsense,’ said Mary, pouting; ‘I often think I don’t love him at all.’
‘And I’m to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?’ asked Sally.
‘If you like,’ replied Mary. ‘I’m sure I don’t care for that or anything else now’; weeping afresh.
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,