A MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY.
Polly, put the kettle on,
And let's have tea!
Polly, put the kettle on,
And we'll all have tea.
"Here we are, wife; didst thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth
hearty-voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves
in preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently
soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts
to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her
husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from Green
Heys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house. The only faint opposition
was raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at
which they would probably return, which she feared on her babies'
account.
"Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband,
good-temperedly. "Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till
long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one
lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for t'other
one, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this
far away from Ancoats."
"Or I can lend you another shawl," suggested Mrs. Barton.
"Ay, any thing rather than not stay."
The matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many
half-finished streets, all so like one another that you might have
easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did
our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until
they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little
paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to
the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off
household slops, washing suds, &c. The women who lived in the court
were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of
linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our
friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop
very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their
faces; but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in
the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists, and
its darkness, had already begun to fall.
Many greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and these
women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court.
Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door,
exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, "Eh, look! Polly
Barton's gotten a sweetheart."
Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how
Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to
his next speech she answered not a word.
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 fire-side 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 storeroom, 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 chatter of
cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their
out-of-door things, and sent Mary up stairs 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 a-piece, that will be five-pence), 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 any
thing 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
occupation 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
shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, 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 strewed, 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, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which
served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes
of broth which Alice sometimes was 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 any one to
come in.
"Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from her
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 her door, and walked in a very foot-sore
manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his
houseplace 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 any thing 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 her 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. Every
one 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, every
one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.
Barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing 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 so 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_."