From _Mary Barton_.
Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on entering
the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except
one bright spot, which might be a cat’s eye, or might be, what it was,
a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal, which John
Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly
produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. To add
to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow
from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire,
and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look
further about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably
large, and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door, as you
entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this
hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the
friends met to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which
stood on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In the
corner between the window and the fireside was a cupboard, apparently
full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript
articles, for which one would have fancied their possessors could find
no use—such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and
forks from dirtying table-cloths. However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was
proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open,
with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to
the door and window was the staircase and two doors, one of which (the
nearest to the fire) led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty
work, such as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served
as larder and pantry and store-room and all. The other door, which was
considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole—the slanting closet under
the stairs, from which to the fire-place there was a gay-coloured piece
of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure
sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser,
with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I
should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot
tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it,
resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a
couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced
merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child’s
aside) it gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It
was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan
ware. A round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the
corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this,
with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form
some idea of John Barton’s home.
The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups and
saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door
things, and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a long whispering,
and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were too polite
to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it all related to the
preparations for hospitality: hospitality that, in their turn, they
should have such pleasure in offering. So they tried to be busily
occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs. Barton’s directions to
Mary.
“Run, Mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at
Tipping’s (you may get one apiece, that will be fivepence), and see if he
has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of.”
“Say two pounds, missis, and don’t be stingy,” chimed in the husband.
“Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for Wilson
comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of home with it
he’ll like—and Mary” (seeing the lassie fain to be off), “you must get a
pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread—mind you get it fresh and new—and,
and—that’s all, Mary.”
“No, it’s not all,” said her husband. “Thou must get sixpennyworth of
rum to warm the tea; thou’ll get it at the ‘Grapes.’ And thou just go to
Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under 14,
Barber Street” (this was addressed to his wife); “and tell her to come
and take her tea with us; she’ll like to see her brother I’ll be bound,
let alone Jane and the twins.”
“If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but half a
dozen, and here’s six of us,” said Mrs. Barton.
“Pooh, pooh! Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely.”
But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her tea-cup
and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything with Jem.
Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the
fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for, in addition
to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations
as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field
simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered
itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as
her legs could carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with
nettles, and her first object was to light a candle, and see to hang
them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was
the perfection of cleanliness; in one corner stood the modest-looking
bed, with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling
up the place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor
was bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed
as if the last washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked
into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was
protected by an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all manner
of hedgerow, ditch, and field plants, which we are accustomed to call
valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil,
and are consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewn, hung,
and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour
in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging
shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice’s were kept.
Her little bit of crockery-ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also
stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at
the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her
frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle,
as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which Alice
was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbour.
After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to light
her fire with the damp coals and half-green sticks, when Mary knocked.
“Come in,” said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door
for the night, and hastening to make it possible for anyone to come in.
“Is that you, Mary Barton?” exclaimed she, as the light from the candle
streamed on the girl’s face. “How you are grown since I used to see you
at my brother’s! Come in, lass, come in.”
“Please,” said Mary, almost breathless, “mother says you’re to come to
tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is with
us, and the twins, and Jem. And you’re to make haste, please.”
“I’m sure it’s very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I’ll come,
with many thanks. Stay, Mary; has your mother got any nettles for spring
drink? If she hasn’t, I’ll take her some.”
“No, I don’t think she has.”
Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of
power, was the more interesting part of her errand—the money-spending
part. And well and ably did she perform her business, returning home
with a little bottle of rum and the eggs in one hand, while her other was
filled with some excellent red-and-white, smoke-flavoured, Cumberland
ham, wrapped up in paper.
She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles, put
out her candle, locked the door, and walked in a very footsore manner
as far as John Barton’s. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place
present, after her humble cellar! She did not think of comparing; but for
all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that
revelled in every corner of the room, the savoury smells, the comfortable
sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little
old-fashioned curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart
to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother.
And now, all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson
in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of the
fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite arm-chair, tried
vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in milk.
Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea-table
and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend
the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she
broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very comfortable portion of
confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem stood awkwardly leaning
against the dresser, replying rather gruffly to his aunt’s speeches,
which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy; whereas he
considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in
two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the
tea-table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his
wife’s face flushed and contracted as if in pain.
At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and
saucers, made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were
hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence; holding the
tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she said, “Here’s to
absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains never.”
It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Everyone
thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down her food,
and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her
tongue out.
It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said and
suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, everyone had
a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and
a dislike to talk about anything else, while her tears fell fast and
scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children set off early home,
not before (in spite of _mal-à-propos_ speeches) they had expressed a
wish that such meetings might often take place, and not before John
Barton had given his hearty consent, and declared that as soon as ever
his wife was well again they would have just such another evening.
“I will take care not to come and spoil it,” thought poor Alice; and
going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said, “You
don’t know how sorry I am I said it.”
To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes,
Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-reproaching
Alice. “You didn’t mean any harm, and it was me as was foolish; only
this work about Esther, and not knowing where she is, lies so heavy on
my heart. Good-night, and never think no more about it. God bless you,
Alice.”
Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after life,
did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words. But just
then all she could say was, “Good night, Mary, and may God bless _you_.”