Mary Barton - Элизабет Гаскелл

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look of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. ‘Well, John, how goes it with you?’ and in a lower voice, he added, ‘Any news of Esther yet?’ Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only fresh sobs from Mrs Barton.

      These arrangements were soon completed; the two women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as Barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom.

      ‘Then you’ve heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?’ asked Wilson.

      ‘No, nor shan’t, as I take it. My mind is, she’s gone off with somebody. My wife frets and thinks she’s drowned herself, but I tell her, folks don’t care to put on their best clothes to drown themselves; and Mrs Bradshaw where she lodged, you know, says the last time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came downstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself.’

      ‘She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on.’

      ‘I wonder she ever left you,’ observed his friend.

      ‘That’s the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so much when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. My Mary shall never work in a factory, that I’m determined on. You see Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face; and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my mind; my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I loved Esther, if it was only for Mary’s sake. Says I, “Esther, I see what you’ll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you’ll be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don’t you go to think I’ll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister.” So says she, “Don’t trouble yourself, John, I’ll pack up and be off now, for I’ll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.” She flushed up like a turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when she saw Mary cry (for Mary can’t abide words in a house), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we talked more friendly, for as I said, I liked the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at that time I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now and then.’

      ‘Then you still were friendly. Folks said you’d cast her off, and said you’d never speak to her again.’

      ‘Folks always make one a deal worse than one is,’ said John Barton testily. ‘She came many a time to our house after she left off living with us. Last Sunday se’nnight – no! it was this very last Sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the last time we set eyes on her.’

      ‘Was she any ways different in her manner?’ asked Wilson.

      ‘Well, I don’t know. I have thought several times since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in towards four o’clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like a child, that I couldn’t find in my heart to scold her, especially as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, and pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist and –’

      ‘Thou must leave off calling her “little” Mary, she’s growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer’s day; more of her mother’s stock than thine,’ interrupted Wilson.

      ‘Well, well, I call her “little”, because her mother’s name is Mary. But as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and “Mary,” says she, “what would you think if I sent for you some day and made a lady of you?” So I could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and I said, “Thou’d best not put that nonsense i’ th’ girl’s head, I can tell thee; I’d rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of God’s creatures but herself.”’

      ‘Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,’ said Wilson, half amused at his friend’s vehemence.

      ‘And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?’ asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth he continued, ‘If I am sick do they come and nurse me? If my child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn’t a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she will fret,’ and here his voice faltered a little, ‘will a rich lady come and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do? No, I tell you, it’s the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. Don’t think to come over me with th’ old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor; I say, if they don’t know, they ought to know. We’re their slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was best off then,’ and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it.

      ‘Well, neighbour,’ said Wilson, ‘all that may be very true, but what I want to know now is about Esther – when did you last hear of her?’

      ‘Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way, kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her “little”), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on Wednesday night comes Mrs Bradshaw’s son with Esther’s box, and presently Mrs Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us, and would pay her week’s money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her back, as I said

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