 CHAPTER XXXIII The subpoena. And must it then depend on this poor eye and this unsteady hand whether the bark that bears all my treasured hope and love shall find a passage through these frowning rocks to some fair port where peace and safety smile, or whether it shall blindly dash against them and miserably sink. Heaven be my help and clear my eye and nerve my trembling hand. The constant woman, her heart beating, her head full of ideas which required time and solitude to be reduced into order, Mary hurried home. She was like one who finds a jewel of which he cannot all at once ascertain the value but who hides his treasure until some quiet hour when he may ponder over the capabilities its possession unfolds. She was like one who discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of bliss and secure of the power within his grasp has to wait for a time before he may thread the labyrinth. But no jewel, no bower of bliss was ever so precious to miser or lover as was the belief which now pervaded Mary's mind that Jem's innocence might be proved without involving any suspicion of that other, that dear one, so dear, although so criminal, on whose part in this cruel business she dared not dwell even in thought. For if she did there arose the awful question, if all went against Jem the innocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which had the looming gallows in the rear, what ought she to do possessed of her terrible knowledge? Surely not to inculpate her father and yet, and yet she almost prayed for the blessed unconsciousness of death or madness rather than that awful question should have to be answered by her. But now Mway seemed opening, opening yet more clear. She was thankful she had thought of the alibi and yet more thankful to have so easily obtained the clue to Jem's whereabouts that miserable night. The bright light that her new hope through overall seemed also to make her thankful for the early time appointed for the trial. It would be easy to catch Will Wilson on his return from the Isle of Man, which he had planned should be on the Monday, and on the Tuesday all would be made clear. All that she dared to wish to be made clear. She had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her memory enough to arrange how to meet with Will. For to the chances of a letter she would not trust, to find out his lodgings when in Liverpool, to try and remember the name of the ship in which she was to sail, and the more she considered these points, the more difficulty she found there would be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. For you were aware that Alice, whose memory was clear and strong on all points in which her heart was interested, was lying in a manner senseless, that Jane Wilson was, to use her own words so expressive to a Lancashire ear, dazed, that is to say bewildered, lost in the confusion of terrifying and distressing thoughts incapable of concentrating her mind, and at the best of times Will's proceedings were a matter of little importance to her, or so she pretended, she was so jealous of ought which distracted attention from her pearl of price, her only son, Jem. So Mary felt hopeless of obtaining any intelligence of the sailor's arrangements from her. Then should she apply to Jem himself? No, she knew him too well. She felt how thoroughly he must there now have headed in his power to exculpate himself at another's expense, and his tacit refusal, so to do, had assured her of what she had never doubted, that the murderer was safe from any impeachment of his. But then neither would he consent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to prove himself innocent. At any rate, she could not consult him. He was removed to Kirkdale and time pressed. Already it was Saturday at noon. And even if she could have gone to him, I believe she would not. She longed to do all herself, to be his liberator, his deliverer, to win him life, though she might never regain his lost love by her own exertions. No. How could she see him to discuss a subject in which both knew who was the bloodstain man? And yet whose name might not be breathed by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins? Was he loved by both? All at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, the name of Will's ship flashed across her mind, the John Cropper. He had named it, she had been sure all along, he had named it in his conversation with her that last, that fatal Thursday evening. She repeated it over and over again, through a nervous dread of again forgetting it, the John Cropper. And then, as if she were rousing herself out of some strange stupor, she rethought herself of Margaret. Who's so likely as Margaret to treasure every little particular, respecting Will, now Alice was dead to all the stirring purposes of life? She had gone thus far in her process of thought when a neighbor stepped in, she with whom they had usually deposited the house key, when both Mary and her father were absent from home, and who consequently took upon herself to answer all inquiries and receive all messages which any friends might make or leave on finding the house shut up. Here's something for you, Mary. A policeman left it. A bit of parchment. Many people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment. I am one. Mary was another. Her heart misgave her as she took it, and looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which though legible enough conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut itself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a proof that she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her. What is it, asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and marrow seemed extracted? Nay, how should I know? Policeman said he'd call again towards evening, and see if you'd get in it. He were loath to leave it, though I'd tell him who I was, and all about my keeping the key and taking messages. What is it about, asked Mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble voice, and turning it over in her fingers as if she dreaded to inform herself of its meaning? Well, you can read every word of writing, and I cannot, so it's clear I should have to tell you. But my master says it's a summons for you to bear witness against James Wellson at the trial at Liverpool as eyes. God pity me, said Mary faintly, as white as a sheet. Nay, Wench, never take on so. What you can say will go little way either to help or to hinder, for folks say he's certain to be hung, and sure enough it was to other one as was your sweetheart. Mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given at another time. Her thoughts were all busy picturing to herself the terrible occasion of their next meeting. Not as lovers meet should they meet. Well, said the neighbour, saying no use in remaining with one, who noticed her words or her presence so little, thou tell policeman thou'st get in his precious bit of paper. He seemed to think I should be keeping it for myself. He's the first as has ever misdoubted me about giving messages or notes. Good day. She left the house, but Mary did not know it. She sat still with the parchment in her hand. All at once she started up. She would take it to Joe Blee, and ask him to tell her the true meaning, for it could not be that. So she went and choked out her words of inquiry. It's a subpoena, he replied, turning the parchment over with the air of a connoisseur, for Joe loved hard words and lorry-like forms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer. From this mattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume of black stone that he had once purchased at a bookstore. A sub-pina, what is that, gasped Mary still in suspense. Job was struck with her voice, her changed, miserable voice, and peered at her countenance from over his spectacles. Oh, a sub-pina is neither more nor less than this, my dear. It's a summoning you to attend and answer such questions as may be asked of you regarding the trial of James Wilson for the murder of Henry Carson. That's the long and short of it, only more elegantly put for the benefit of them, who knows how to value the gift of language. I have been a witness before time myself. There's nothing much to be afeard on. If they are impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give them tip for tat. Nothing much to be afeard on, echoed Mary, but in such a different tone. I, poor wench, I see how it is. It'll go hard with thee a bit, I daresay, but keep up thy heart. You cannot have much to tell them that can go either one way or the other. Nay, maybe thou may do him a bit of good. For when they set eyes on thee, they'll see fast enough how he came to be so led away by jealousy. For thou art a pretty creature, Mary, and one look at thy face will let him into the secret of a young man's madness, and make him more ready to pass it over. Oh, Job, and won't you ever believe me when I tell you he's innocent? And, indeed, I can prove it. He's with will all that night. He was indeed Job. My wench, whose word hast thou for that, said Job pideingly. Why, his mother told me, and I'll get will to bear witness to it. But, oh, Job, bursting into tears, it is hard if you won't believe me. How shall I clear him to strangers when those who know him and ought to love him are so set against his being innocent? God knows I'm not against his being innocent, said Job solemnly. I'd give half my remaining days on earth. I'd give them all, Mary. And but for the love I bear to my poor blind girl, they'd be no great gift if I could save him. You've thought me hard, Mary, but I'm not hard at bottom, and I'll help you if I can. That I will, right or wrong, he added, but in a low voice, and coughed the uncertain words away with the moment afterwards. Oh, Job, if you will help me, exclaimed Mary, brightening up. Though it was but a wintry gleam after all, tell me what to say when they question me. I shall be so gloppened. I shan't know what to answer. Gloppened, terrified. Thou canst do note better than tell the truth. Truth's best at all times, they say, and for sure it is when folk have to do with lawyers, for they are cute and cunning enough to get it out sooner or later. And it makes folk look like Tom Notties when truth follows falsehood against their will. But I don't know the truth. I mean. I can't say rightly what I mean, but I'm sure, if I were pent up and stared at by hundreds of folk and asked ever so simple a question, I should be for answering it wrong. And if they asked me if I had seen you on a Saturday, or a Tuesday, or any day, I should have clean forgotten all about it and say the very thing I should not. Well, well, don't go for to get such notions into your head. They're what they call nervous, and talking on them does no good. Here's Margaret, bless the wench. Look, Mary, how well she guides herself. Job felt watching his granddaughter, as with balancing, measured steps, timed almost as if to music she made her way across the street. Mary shrank as if from a cold blast, shrank from Margaret. The blind girl with her reserve, her silence, seemed to be a severe judge. She, listening, would be such a check to the trusting earnestness of confidence, which was beginning to unclog the sympathy of Job. Mary knew herself to blame, felt her errors in every fiber of her heart. But yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in terms of severest censure, than have been treated in the icy manner in which Margaret had received her that morning. Here's Mary, said Job, almost as if he wished to propitiate his granddaughter. Come to take a bit of dinner with us, and I'll warrant she's never thought of cooking any for herself to-day, and she looks as one and pale as a ghost. It was calling out the feeling of hospitality so strong and warm in most of those who have little to offer, but whose heart goes eagerly and kindly with that little. Margaret came towards Mary with a welcoming gesture, and a kinder manner by far than she had used in the morning. Nay, Mary, thou knowst thou'st getting not at home, urged Job, and Mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching full of other matters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her refusal. They ate their dinner quietly, for to all it was an effort to speak, and after one or two attempts they had subsided into silence. When the meal was ended, Job began again on the subject they all had at heart. Yon poor lad at Kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they don't pull on him, but do him justice, has thought on that? Mary had not, and felt sure his mother had not. I've but just been there, and poor Jane is like one dateless, so many griefs come on her at once. One time she seems to make sure he'll be hung, and if I took her in that way she flew out, poor body, and said that in spite of what folks said there were them as could and would prove him guiltless. So I never knew where to have her. The only thing she was constant in was declaring him innocent. Motherlike said Job. She meant Will when she spoke on them that could prove him innocent. He was with Will on Thursday night, walking a part of the way with him to Liverpool. Now the thing is to lay hold on Will and get him to prove this. So spoke Mary, calm, from the earnestness of her purpose. Don't build too much on it, my dear, said Job. I do build on it, replied Mary, because I know it's the truth, and I mean to try and prove it come what may. Nothing you can say will daunt me, Job, so don't you go and try. You may help, but you cannot hinder me doing what I'm resolved on. They respected her firmness of determination, and Job almost gave in to her belief when he saw how steadfastly she was acting upon it. O surest way of conversion to our faith, whatever it may be, regarding either small things or great, when it is beheld as the actuating principle from which we never swerve, when it has seen that instead of over much profession, it has worked into the life and moves every action. Mary gained courage, as she instinctively felt that she had made way with one at least of her companions. Now I'm clear about this much, she continued. He was with Will when the shot was fired. She could not bring herself to say, when the murder was committed, when she remembered who it was, that she had every reason to believe, was the taker away of life. Will come prove this, I must find Will. He wasn't to sail till Tuesday. There's time enough. He was to come back from his uncles in the Isle of Man on Monday. I must meet him in Liverpool on that day and tell him what has happened and how a poor gem is in trouble and that he must prove an alibi come Tuesday. All this I can and will do, though perhaps I don't clearly know how, just at present. But surely God will help me. When I know I'm doing right, I will have no fear but put my trust in him, for I'm acting for the innocent and good and not for my own self, who have done so wrong. I have no fear when I think of Gem, who is so good. She stopped, oppressed with the fullness of her heart. Margaret began to love her again, to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive, lovable creature she had known in the former Mary Barton, but with more of dignity, self-reliance and purpose. Mary spoke again. Now I know the name of Will's vessel, the John Cropper, and I know that she is bound to America. That is something to know, but I forgot, if I ever heard, where he lodges in Liverpool. He spoke of his landlady as a good, trustworthy woman, but if he named her name it has slipped my memory. Can you help me, Margaret? She appealed to her friend, calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware of and recognizing unspoken tie which bound her and Will together. She asked her, in the same manner in which she would have asked a wife where her husband dwelt. And Margaret replied in the light, calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone, bearing witness to any internal agitation. He lodges at a Mrs. Jones Milkhouse yard, out of Nicholas Street. He has lodged there ever since he began to go to see. She is a very decent kind of woman, I believe. Well, Mary, I'll give you my prayers, said Job. It's not often that I play regular, although I often speak a word to God, when I'm either very happy or very sorry. I've catched myself thanking him at odd hours when I've found a rare insect, or had a fine day for and out. But I cannot help it, no more than I can talk into a friend. But this time I'll pray regular for Gem and for you. And so will Margaret, I'll be bound. Still, Wench, what thank you, and a lawyer. I know one, Mr. Cheshire, who's rather given to the insect line, and a good kind of chap. He and I have swapped specimens, many's the time, when either of us had a duplicate. He'll do me a kind turn, I'm sure. I'll just take my hat and pay him a visit. No sooner said than done. Mary and Margaret were left alone. And this seemed to bring back the feeling of awkwardness, not to say, estrangement. But Mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to break silence. Oh, Margaret, said she. I see. I feel how wrong you think I have acted. You cannot think me worse than I think myself. Now my eyes are opened. Here her sobs came choking up her voice. Nay, Margaret, began, I have no right to. Yes, Margaret, you have a right to judge. You cannot help it. Only in your judgment remember mercy, as the Bible says. You, who have always been good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little wrong, and then how hard it is to go back. Oh, I little thought, when I was first pleased with Mr. Carson's speeches, how it would all end. Perhaps in the death of him I loved better than life. She burst into a passion of tears. Her feelings pent up through the day would have vent. But chucking herself with a strong effort, and looking up at Margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes could see her imploring face, she added, I must not cry. I must not give way. There will be time enough for that hereafter, if— I only wanted you to speak kindly to me, Margaret, for I am very, very wretched. More wretched than anyone can ever know. More wretched I sometimes fancy than I have deserved. But that's wrong, isn't it, Margaret? Oh, I have done wrong and I am punished. You cannot tell how much. Who could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? Who would refuse the kindness with which she begged so penitently? Not Margaret. The old friendly manner came back. With it may be more of tenderness. Oh, Margaret, do you think he can be saved? Do you think they can find him guilty if Will comes forward as a witness? Won't that be a good alibi? Margaret did not answer for a moment. Oh, speak, Margaret, said Mary, with anxious and patience. I known out about law or alibis, answered Margaret meekly. But, Mary, as grandfather says, aren't you building too much on what Jane Wilson has told you about his going with Will? Poor soul, she's gone dateless, I think, with care and watching, and over much trouble, and who can wonder? Or Jem may have told her he was going by way of a blind. You don't know Jem, said Mary, starting from her seat in a hurried manner, or you would not say so. I hope I may be wrong. But think, Mary, how much there is against him. The shot was fired with his gun. He it was, as threatened Mr. Carson not many days before. He was absent from home at that very time, as we know. And as I much afeard, someone will be called on to prove. And there's no one else to share suspicion with him. Mary heaved a deep sigh. But Margaret, he did not do it, Mary again asserted. Margaret looked unconvinced. I can do no good, I see, and by saying so, for none on you believe me. And I won't say so again until I can prove it. Monday morning I'll go to Liverpool. I shall be at hand for the trial. Oh, dear, dear, and I will find Will, and then, Margaret, I think you'll be sorry for being so stubborn about Jem. Don't fly off, dear Mary, I'd give a deal to be wrong. And now I'm going to be plain spoken. You'll want money. And lawyers is no better than a sponge for sucking up money. Let alone your hunting out Will, and your keep in Liverpool, and what not. You must take some of the mint I've got laid by in the old teapot. You have no right to refuse, for I offer it to Jem, not to you. It's for his purposes you're to use it. I know, I see. Thank you, Margaret. You are a kind one at any rate. I'll take it for Jem, and I'll do my very best with it for him. Not all, though. Don't think I'll take all. They'll pay me for my keep. I'll take this, accepting a sovereign from the horde which Margaret produced, out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. Your grandfather will pay the lawyer. I'll have nought to do with him, shuddering as she remembered Job's words, a boat lawyer's skill in always discovering the truth sooner or later, and knowing what was the secret she had to hide. Bless you, don't make such a do about it, said Margaret, cutting short Mary's thanks. I sometimes think there's two sides to the commandment, and that we may say, let others do unto you as she would do unto them, for pride often prevents our giving others a great deal of pleasure in not letting them be kind, when their hearts are longing to help, and when we ourselves should wish to do just the same if we were in their place. Oh, how often I've been hurt, for being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about their care or sorrow, when I saw them in great grief and wanted to be of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not above letting folk minister to him, for he knew how happy it makes one to do out for another. It's the happiest work on earth. Mary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the street, to attend very closely to that which Margaret was saying. From her seat she could see out of the window very plainly, when she caught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of Job evidently in earnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating enough to be a lawyer. Job was laying down something to be attended to she could see by his uplifted forefinger in his whole gesture. Then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own house, as if inducing his companion to come in. Mary dreaded lest he should, and she should be subjected to closer cross-examination than she had hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that Jem was innocent. She feared he was coming, he stepped a little toward the spot. No, it was only to make way for a child tottering along, whom Mary had overlooked. Now Job took him by the button so earnestly familiar had he grown. The gentleman looked fidging feign to be gone, but submitted in a manner that made Mary like him in spite of his profession. Then came a volley of last words, answered by briefest nods, and monosyllables, and then the stranger went off with a redoubled quickness of pace, and Job crossed the street with a little satisfied air of importance on his kindly face. Well, Mary said he on entering. I've seen the lawyer, not Mr. Cheshire, though. Trials for murder, it seems, are not his line of business. But he give me a note to another attorney, a fine fellow enough, only too much of a talker. I could hardly get a word in, he cut me so short. However, I've just been going over the principal points again to him. Maybe you saw us. I wanted him just to come over and speak to you himself. Mary but he was pressed for time, and he said your evidence would not be much either here nor there. He's going to the size's first train on Monday morning, and we'll see Jem, and hear the ins and outs from him, and he's give me his address. Mary and you and Will are to call on him. Will's special, on Monday at two o'clock. Thou art taking it in, Mary, thou art to call on him, in Liverpool at two, Monday afternoon. Job had reason to doubt if she fully understood him. For all this minuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, as he considered them, only seemed to bring the circumstances in which she was placed more vividly home to Mary. They convinced her that it was real, and not all a dream, as she had sunk into fancying it for a few minutes while sitting in the old accustomed place, her body enjoying the rest and her frame sustained by food, and listening to Margaret's calm voice. The gentlemen she had just beheld would see and question Jem in a few hours, and what would be the result. Monday, that was the day after tomorrow, and on Tuesday, life and death would be tremendous realities to her lover, or else death would be an awful certainty to her father. No wonder Job went over his main points again. Monday at two o'clock, mind, and hears his card. Mr. Bridge North, 41 Wrenshaw Street, Liverpool, he'll be lodging there. Job sees talking, and the silenced roused Mary up to thank him. You're very kind, Job, very. You and Margaret won't desert me, come what will. Poo-poo, Wench! Don't lose heart, just as I'm beginning to get it. He seems to think a deal on Will's evidence. You're sure, girls. You're under no mistake about Will. I'm sure, said Mary. He went straight from here, purposing to go see his uncle at the Isle of Man, and be back Sunday night, ready for the ship sailing on Tuesday. So am I, said Margaret, and the ship's name was the John Cropper, and he lodged where I told Mary before. Have you got it down, Mary? Mary wrote it on the back of Mr. Bridge North's card. He was not over-willing to go, said she as she wrote, for he knew little about his uncle, and said he didn't care if he never knowed more. But he said Kensfolk was Kensfolk, and promises was promises, so he'd go for a day or so, and then it would be over. Margaret had to go, and practice some singing in town. So though loath to depart and be alone, Mary bade her friends who sit and count the heavy hours, beside the fevered sleep of one they love. Oh, awful is it in the hushed midnight, while gazing on the pallid, move-less form, to start and ask, is it now sleep or death anonymous? Mary could not be patient in her loneliness. So much painful thought weighed on her mind. The very house was haunted with memories and foreshadowings. Having performed all duties to Jem, as far as her weak powers, yet loving heart could act, and a black veil being drawn over her father's past, present and future life, beyond which she could not penetrate to judge of any filial service she ought to render, her mind unconsciously sought after some course of action in which she might engage. Anything, anything, rather than leisure for reflection. And then came up the old feeling which first bound Ruth to Naomi, the love they both held towards one object, and Mary felt that her cares would be most lightened by being of use, or of comfort to his mother. So she once more locked up the house and set off towards Ancoats, rushing along with downcast head, and for fearless anyone should recognize her and arrest her progress. Jane Wilson sat quietly in her chair as Mary entered, so quietly as to strike one by the contrast it presented to her usual bustling and nervous manner. She looked very pale and wan, but the quietness was the thing that struck Mary most. She did not rise as Mary came in but sat still and said something in so gentle, so feeble a voice, that Mary did not catch it. Mrs. Davenport, who was there, plucked Mary by the gown, and whispered, Never heed her, she's worn out, and best let alone. I'll tell you all about it upstairs. But Mary touched by the anxious look with which Mrs. Wilson gazed at her, as if waiting the answer to some question, went forward to listen to the speech she was again repeating. What is it, will you tell me? When Mary looked and saw another ominous slip of parchment in the mother's hand, which she was rolling up and down in a tremulous manner between her fingers, Mary's heart sickened within her, and she could not speak. What is it, she repeated, will you tell me? She still looked at Mary with the same childlike gaze of wonder and patient entreaty. What could she answer? I tell you not to heed her, said Mrs. Davenport a little angrily. She knows well enough what it is, too well belight. I was not in when they served it. But Mrs. Hemming, her as life's next door, was as she spelled out the meaning, and made it all clear to Mrs. Wilson. It's a summons to be a witness on Jem's trial. Mrs. Hemming thinks, to swear to the gun, for you see, there's no but her as can testify to us being his. And she let on so easily to the policeman that it was his, that there's no getting off her word now, poor body. She takes it very hard, I daresay. Mrs. Wilson had awaited patiently while this whispered speech was being uttered, imagining perhaps that it would end in some explanation addressed to her. But when both were silent, though their eyes without speech or language told their hearts pity, she spoke again in the same unaltered gentle voice, so different from the irritable impatience she had been ever apt to show to everyone except her husband, he who had wedded her, broken down and injured, in a voice so different, I say, from the old hasty manner she spoke now the same anxious words. What is this? Will you tell me? You'd better give it to me at once, Mrs. Wilson, and let me put it out of your sight. Speak to her, Mary Wunch, and ask for a sight on it. I've tried and better tried to get it from her. And she takes no heed of words, and I'm lost to pull it by force out of her hands. Mary drew the little cricket out from under the dresser, and sat down at Mrs. Wilson's knee, and coaxing one of her tremulous, ever-moving hands into hers, began to rub it soothingly. There was a little resistance, a very little, but that was all, and presently in the nervous movement of the imprisoned hand, the parchment fell to the ground. Mary calmly and openly picked it up without any attempt at concealment, and quietly placing it inside of the anxious eyes that followed it with a kind of spellbound dread, but on with her soothing caresses. She has had no sleep for many nights, said the girl to Mrs. Davenport, and all this woe and sorrow, it's no wonder. No indeed, Mrs. Davenport answered. We must get her fairly to bed. We must get her undressed, and all, and trust to God in his mercy to send her to sleep or else. For, you see, they spoke before her as if she were not there. Her heart was so far away. Accordingly, they almost lifted her from the chair in which she sat motionless. And taking her up as gently as a mother carries her sleeping baby, they undressed her poor, worn form, and laid her in the little bed upstairs. They had once thought of placing her in Jem's bed, to be out of sight or sound of any disturbance of Alice's. But then again they remembered the shock she might receive in awakening in so unusual a place, and also that Mary, who intended to keep vigil that night in the house of mourning, would find it difficult to divide her attention in the possible cases that might ensue. So they laid her, as I said before, on that little pallet bed, and as they were slowly withdrawing from the bedside, hoping and praying that she might sleep and forget for a time her heavy burden. She looked wistfully after Mary and whispered, You haven't told me what it is. What is it? Engazing in her face for the expected answer, her eyelids slowly closed and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, almost as profound a rest as death. Mrs. Davenport went her way and Mary was alone, for I cannot call those who sleep allies against the agony of thought which solitude sometimes brings up. She dreaded the night before her. Alice might die. The doctor had that day declared her case hopeless, and not far from death, and at times the terror so natural to the young, not of death, but of the remains of the dead, came over Mary, and she bent and listened anxiously for the long-drawn, pausing breath of the sleeping Alice. Our Mrs. Wilson might awake in a state which Mary dreaded to anticipate, and anticipated while she dreaded, in a state of complete delirium. Already her senses had been severely stunned by the full explanation of what was required of her, of what she had to prove against her son, her gem, her only child, which Mary could not doubt the officious Mrs. Hemming had given, and what if in dreams that land into which no sympathy or love can penetrate with another, either to share its bliss or its agony, that land whose scenes are unspeakable terrors, are hidden mysteries, are priceless treasures to one alone, that land where alone I may see, while yet I tarry here, the sweet looks of my dear child. What if, in the horrors of her dreams, her brain should go still more astray, and she should awaken crazy with her visions and the terrible reality that begot them? How much worse is anticipation sometimes than reality? How Mary dreaded that night, and how calmly it passed by? Even more so than if Mary had not had such claims upon her care. Anxiety about them deadened her own particular anxieties. She thought of the sleepers whom she was watching till overpowered herself by the want of rest. She fell off into short slumbers in which the night wore imperceptibly away. To be sure Alice spoke, and sang during her waking moments like the child she deemed herself, but so happily with the dearly loved ones around her, with the scent of the heather, and the song of the wild bird hovering about her in imagination, with old scraps of ballads or old snatches of primitive versions of the psalms, such as her song in country churches half draperied over with ivy, and where the running brook or the murmuring wind among the trees makes fit accompaniment to the chorus of human voices uttering praise and thanksgiving to their God. That the speech and the song gave comfort and good cheer to the listener's heart, and the gray dawn began to dim the light of the rush candle, before Mary thought it possible that day was already trembling in the horizon. Then she got up from the chair where she had been dozing, and went half asleep to the window to assure herself that morning was at hand. The streets were unusually quiet with the Sabbath stillness. No factory bells that morning, no early workmen going to their labors, no slip-shot girls cleaning the windows of the little shops which broke the monotony of the street. Instead you might see here and there some operative sallying forth, for a breath of country air, or some father leading out his wheat-huddling barons, for the unwanted pleasure of a walk with daddy, in the clear frosty morning. Men with more leisure on weekdays would perhaps have walked quicker than they did through the fresh, sharp air of this Sunday morning, but to them there was a pleasure, an absolute refreshment in the dawdling gate they, one and all of them, had. There were indeed one or two passengers on that morning whose objects were less innocent, and less praiseworthy than those of the people I've already mentioned, and whose animal state of mind and body clashed jarringly on the peacefulness of the day, but upon them I will not dwell, as you and I, and almost everyone, I think, may send up our individual cry of self-approach that we have not done all that we could for the stray and wandering ones of our brethren. When Mary turned from the window, she went to the bed of each sleeper to look and listen. Alice looked perfectly quiet and happy in her slumber, and her face seemed to have become much more youthful during the painless approach to death. Mrs. Wilson's countenance was stamped with the anxiety of the last few days, although she too appeared sleeping soundly, but as Mary gazed on her, trying to trace a likeness to her son and her face, she awoke and looked up into Mary's eyes, while the expression of consciousness came back into her own. Both were silent for a minute or two. Mary's eyes had fallen beneath that penetrating gaze, in which the agony of memory seemed every minute to find fuller vent. Is it a dream, the mother asked at last in a low voice? No, replied Mary in the same tone. Mrs. Wilson hid her face in the pillow. She was fully conscious of everything this morning. It was evident that the stunning effect of the subpoena, which had affected her so much last night and her weak worn-out state, had passed away. Mary offered no opposition when she indicated by languid gesture in action that she wished to rise. A sleepless bed is a haunted place. When she was dressed with Mary's aid, she stood by Alice for a minute or two looking at the slumberer. How happy she is, she said quietly and sadly. All the time that Mary was getting breakfast ready and performing every other little domestic office she could think of to add to the comfort of Jim's mother, Mrs. Wilson sat still in the armchair watching her silently. Her old irritation of temper and manner seemed to have suddenly disappeared, or perhaps she was too depressed and body and mind to show it. Mary told her all that had been done with regard to Mr. Bridgenorth, all her own plans for seeking out will, all her hopes, and concealed as well as she could all the doubts and fears that would arise and bidden. To this Mrs. Wilson listened without much remark, but with deep interest and perfect comprehension. When Mary ceased, she sighed and said, oh Wench, I am his mother, and yet I do so little. I can do so little. That's what frets me. I seem like a child that sees its mammy ill and moans and cries its little heart out. It does not to help. I think my sense has left me all at once, and I can't even find strength to cry like the little child. Hereupon she broke into a feeble will of self-approach, that her outward show of misery was not greater, as if any cries or tears or loud spoken words could have told of such pangs at the heart as that look and that thin, piping altered voice. But think of Mary in what she was enduring. Picture to yourself, for I cannot tell you, the armies of thoughts that met and clashed in her brain, and then imagine the effort it cost her to be calm and quiet and even in a faint way cheerful and smiling at times. After a while she began to stir about in her own mind for some means of sparing the poor mother of the trial of appearing as a witness in the matter of the gun. She had made no allusion to her summons this morning, and Mary almost thought she must have forgotten it. And surely some means might be found to prevent that additional sorrow. She must see Job about it, nay, if necessary she must see Mr. Bridge North with all its truth-compelling powers. For indeed she had so struggled and triumphed, though a sadly bleeding victor at heart over herself these two last days, had so concealed agony in hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, that she began to take confidence and to have faith in her own powers of meeting anyone with a passably fair show, whatever might be rending her life beneath the cloak of her deception. Accordingly, as soon as Mrs. Davenport came in after Morning Church, to ask after the two lone women, and she had heard the report Mary had to give, so much better as regarded Mrs. Wilson than what they had feared the night before it would have been. As soon as this kind-hearted, grateful woman came in, Mary telling her purpose, went off to fetch the doctor who attended Alice. He was shaking himself after his morning's round, and happy in the anticipation of his Sunday's dinner, but he was a good tempered man who found it difficult to keep down his jovial easiness even by the bed of sickness or death. He had mischosen his profession, for it was his delight to see everyone around him in full enjoyment of life. However, he subdued his face to the proper expression of sympathy befitting a doctor listening to a patient or a patient's friend, and Mary's sad, pale, anxious face might be taken for either the one or the other. Well, my girl, and what brings you here, said he, as he entered his surgery. Not on your own account, I hope? I wanted you to come and see Alice Wilson, and then I thought you would maybe take a look at Mrs. Wilson. He bustled on his hat and coat, and followed Mary instantly. After shaking his head over Alice, as if it was a mournful thing for one so pure and good, so true, although so humble a Christian, to be nearing her desired haven, and muttering the accustomed words intended to destroy hope and prepare anticipation, he went in compliance with Mary's look to ask the usual questions of Mrs. Wilson, who sat passively in her armchair. She answered his questions and submitted to his examination. How do you think her asked Mary eagerly? Why, began he perceiving that he was desired to take one side in his answer, and unable to find out whether his listener was anxious for a favourable verdict or otherwise, but thinking it most probable that she would desire the former, he continued. She is weak, certainly, the natural result of such a shock as the arrest of her son would be. For I understand this James Wilson, who murdered Mr. Carson, was her son. Sad thing to have such a reprobate in the family. You say, who murdered, sir, said Mary indignantly. He has only taken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt of his innocence. Those who know him, sir. Ah, well, well. Doctors have seldom time to read newspapers, and I dare say I'm not very correct in my story. Dare say he's innocent, I'm sure I had no right to say otherwise. Only words slip out, nope. Indeed, young woman, I see no cause for apprehension about this poor creature in the next room. Weak, certainly, but I dare choose good nursing will set her up. And I'm sure you're a good nurse, my dear. From your pretty, kind-hearted face, I'll send a couple of pills in a draft, but don't alarm yourself. There's no occasion, I assure you. But you don't think her fit to go to Liverpool? asked Mary, still in the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly for some particular decision. To Liverpool, yes, replied he. A short journey like that couldn't fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. Let her go by all means. It would be the very thing for her. Oh, sir, burst out Mary, almost sobbing. I did so hope you would say she was too well to go. Woo, said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to understand the case. But being, as he said, no reader of newspapers, utterly unaware of the peculiar reasons there might be for so apparently and feeling a wish, why did you not tell me so sooner? It might certainly do her arm in her weak state. There is always some risk to tending journeys, drafts, and whatnot. To her, they might prove very injurious, very. I disapprove of journeys or excitement, in all cases, where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in which Mrs. Wilson is. If you take my advice, you will certainly put a stop to all thoughts of going to Liverpool. He really had completely changed his opinion, though quite unconsciously. So desirous was he to comply with the wishes of others. Oh, sir, thank you. And will you give me a certificate of her being unable to go if the lawyer says he must have one? The lawyer, you know, continued she, seeing him look puzzled, who was to defend Jem, it was as a witness against him. My dear girl, said he almost angrily, why did you not state the case fully at first? One minute would have done it, and my dinner waiting all this time. To be sure she can't go, it would be madness to think of it. If her evidence could have done good, it would have been a different thing. Come to me for the certificate any time, that is to say if the lawyer advises you. I second the lawyer, take counsel with both learned professions, and laughing at his own joke he departed, leaving Mary accusing herself of stupidity and having imagined that everyone was as well acquainted with the facts concerning the trial as she was herself. For indeed she had never doubted that the doctor would have been aware of the purpose of poor Mrs. Wilson's journey to Liverpool. Presently she went to Job, the ever-ready Mrs. Davenport keeping watch over the two old women, and told him her fears, her plans, and her proceedings. To her surprise he shook his head doubtfully. It may have an awkward look if he keep her back. Lawyers is up to tricks. But it is no tricks, said Mary. She's so poorly she was last night so at least, and today she's so faded and weak. Poor soul, I dare say, I only mean for gem's sake, and so much is known it won't do now to hang back. But I'll ask Mr. Bridge North. I'll even take your doctor's advice. You'll tidy at home, and I'll come to you in an hour's time. Go thy ways, Wunch. End of Chapter 24. Chapter 25 of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskill. Chapter 25. Mrs. Wilson's Determination. Something there was, what none presumed to say. Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day. Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear, and mixed reports no judge on earth could clear. Crab. Curious conjectures he may always make, and either side of dubious questions take. Ibbid. Mary went home. Oh, how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain was growing. But there would be time enough she felt for giving way hereafter. She sat quiet and still by an effort, sitting near the window and looking at it, but seeing nothing. When all at once she caught sight of something which roused her up and made her draw back. But it was too late, she had been seen. Sally Ledbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy with the Sunday excess of coloring in her dress. She was really curious to see Mary. Her connection with the murder seemed to have made her into a sort of lucinatura, and was almost by some expected to have made a change in her personal appearance. So earnestly did they stare at her. But Mary had been too much absorbed the last day or two to notice this. Now Sally had a grand view and looked her over and over. A very different thing from looking her through and through, and almost learned her off by heart. Her everyday gown, coils print, you know, that lilac thing with the high body she was so fond of. A little black silk handkerchief just nodded round her neck, like a boy. Her hair all taken back from her face as if she wanted to keep her head cool. She would always keep that hair of hers so long, and her hands twitching continually about. Such particulars would make Sally into a gazette extraordinary the next morning at the workroom, and were worth coming for, even if little else could be extracted from Mary. Why, Mary, she began, where have you hidden yourself? You never showed your face all day at Miss Simmons. You don't fancy we think any worse of you for what's come and gone. Some on us, indeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and cold for your sake. Mary, but we shall ne'ercast it against you. Miss Simmons, too, will be mighty put out if you don't come, for there's a deal of mourning agape. I can't, Mary said in a low voice. I don't mean to ever come again. Why, Mary, said Sally an unfeigned surprise. To be sure you'll have to be in Liverpool Tuesday, and maybe Wednesday, but after that you'll surely come and tell us all about it. Miss Simmons knows you'll have to be off those two days, but between you and me, she's a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the trial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a day or two. Besides, Betsy Morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn't wonder but you'd provide quite an attraction to customers. Many a one would come and have their gowns made by Miss Simmons just to catch a glimpse at you after the trial's over. Really, Mary, you'll turn out quite a heroine. The little fingers twitched worse than ever. The large soft eyes looked up pleadingly into Sally's face, but she went on in the same strain, not from any unkind or cruel feelings toward Mary, but solely because she was incapable of comprehending her suffering. She had been shocked, of course, at Mr. Carson's death, though at the same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise, and dearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which Mary was sure to receive. How shall you like being cross-examined, Mary? Not at all, answered Mary, when she found she must answer. La, what impudent fellows those lawyers are. And they're clerks, too, not a bit better. I shouldn't wonder in a comforting tone and really believing she was giving comfort if you picked up a new sweetheart in Liverpool. What gown are you going in, Mary? I don't know and I don't care, exclaimed Mary, sick and weary of her visitor. Well then, take my advice and go in that blue merino. It's old to be sure and a bit worn at elbows, but folks won't notice that and the color suits you. Now mind, Mary, and I'll lend you my black-watered scarf, added she, really good-naturedly, according to her sense of things, and with all, a little bit pleased at the idea of her pet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at trial for murder. I'll bring it tomorrow before you start. No, don't, said Mary, thank you, but I don't want it. Why, what can you wear? I know all your clothes as well as I do my own. What's in there you can wear? Not your old plaid shawl, I do hope. You would not fancy this I have on, nor nor the scarf, would you? She said she, brightening at the thought, and willing to lend it or anything else. Oh, Sally, don't go on talking fattens. How can I think on a dress at such a time, when it's a matter of life and death to Jim? Bless the girl, it's Jim, is it? Well now, I thought there was some sweetheart in the background when you flew off so with Mr. Carson. Then what, in the name of goodness, made him shoot Mr. Harry? After you'd given up going with him, I mean, was he afraid you'd be on again? How dare you say he shot Mr. Harry? Ask Mary firing up from the state of language and difference into which she had sunk while Sally had been settling about her dress. But it's no matter what you think, as did not know him. What grieves me is that people should go on thinking him guilty, as did know him, she said, sinking back into her former depressed tone and manner. And don't you think he did it, asked Sally? Mary paused, she was going on too fast with one so curious and so unscrupulous. Besides, she remembered how even she herself had, at first, believed him guilty, and she felt it was not for her to cast stones at those who, on similar evidence, inclined to the same belief. None had given him much benefit of a doubt, none had faith in his innocence, none but his mother, and the heart loved more than the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for an instant entertained the idea that her gem was a murderer. But Mary disliked the whole conversation, the subject, the manner in which it was treated, were all painful, and she had a repugnance to the person with whom she spoke. She was thankful, therefore, when Joe Blee's voice was heard at the door, as he stood with the latch in his hand, talking to a neighbor, and when Sally jumped up in vexation and said, there's that old foggy coming in here, as I'm alive. Did your father said him to look after you while he was away, or what brings the old chap here? However, I'm off. I never could abide either him or his prim granddaughter. Goodbye, Mary. So far in a whisper, then louder, if you think better of my offer about the scarf, Mary, just step in tomorrow before nine, and you're quite welcome to it. She and Joe passed each other at the door with mutual looks of dislike, which neither took any pains to conceal. Yon's a bold, bad girl, said Joe to Mary. She's very good natured, replied Mary, too honorable to abuse a visitor who had only that instant crossed her threshold, and gladly dwelling on the good quality, most apparent in Sally's character. I, I, good nature, generous, jolly, full of fun. There are a number of other names for the good qualities the devil leaves his children, as baits to catch gudgens with. Do you think folk could be led astray by one who was every way bad? However, that's not what I came to talk about. I've seen Mr. Bridge North, and he's in a manner the same mind as we. He thinks it would have an awkward look and might tell against the poor lad on his trial. Still, if she's ill, she's ill, and it can't be helped. I don't know if she's so bad as all that, said Mary, who began to dread her part in doing anything which might tell against her poor lover. Will you come and see her, Job? The doctor seemed to say, as I liked, not as he thought. That's because he had no great thought on the subject, either one way or tether, replied Job, whose contempt for medical men pretty nearly equalled his respect for lawyers. But I'll go and welcome. I had not seen the old ladies since their sorrows, and it's but manners to go and ask after them. Come along, the room at Mrs. Wilson's had that still changeless look you must have often observed in the house of sickness or mourning. No particular employment going on, people watching and waiting rather than acting, unless in the more sudden and violent attacks, what little movement is going on, so noiseless and hushed, the furniture all arranged and stationary with a view to the comfort of the afflicted, the window blinds drawn down to keep out the disturbing variety of a sunbeam, the same sad and serious look on the faces of the indwellers. You fall back into the same train of thought with all these associations and forget the street, the outer world and the contemplation of the one stationary absorbing interest within. Mrs. Wilson sat quietly in her chair with just the same look Mary had left on her face. Mrs. Davenport went about with creaking shoes which made all the more noise from her careful and lengthened tread, annoying the ears of those who were well, in this instance far more than the dull sense of the sick and the sorrowful. Alice's voice still was going on cheerfully in the upper room with incessant talking and little laughs to herself, or perhaps in sympathy with her unseen companions. Unseen, I say, in preference to fancied, for who knows whether God does not permit the forms of those who were dearest when living to hover around the bed of the dying? Job spoke, and Mrs. Wilson answered. So quietly that it was unnatural under the circumstances. It made a deeper impression on the old man than any token of mere bodily illness could have done. If she had raved in delirium or moaned in fever, he would have spoken after his want and given his opinion, his advice and his consolation. Now he was awed into silence. At length he pulled Mary aside into a corner of the house place where Mrs. Wilson was sitting and began to talk to her. You're right, Mary. She's no waste fit to go to Liverpool, poor soul. Now I've seen her. I only wonder the doctor could have been unsettled in his mind at the first. Choose how it goes with poor Jim. She cannot go. One way or another, it will soon be over. The best to leave her in the state she is till then. I was sure you would think so, said Mary. But they were reckoning without their host. They esteemed her senses gone, while, in fact, they were only inert and could not convey impressions rapidly to the overburdened, troubled brain. They had not noticed that her eyes had followed them. Mechanically, it seemed at first, as they had moved away to the corner of the room, that her face, hitherto so changeless, had began to work with one or two of the symptoms of impatience. But when they were silent, she stood up and startled them almost as if a dead person had spoken by saying clearly and decidedly, I go to Liverpool. I hear you in your plans and I tell you, I shall go to Liverpool. If my words kill my son, they have already gone forth out of my mouth and not can bring them back. But I will have faith. Alice, up above, has often told me, I want faith and now I will have it. They cannot. They will not kill my child. My only child, I will not be afraid. Yet, oh, I am sick with terror. But if he is to die, think ye not that I will see him again. I see him at his trial. When all are hating him, he shall have his poor mother near him to give him all the comfort, eyes and looks and tears, and a heart that is dead to all but him. Can give his poor mother, who knows how free he is from sin. In the sight of man at least, they'll let me go to him. Maybe the very minute it's over and I know many scripture texts, though you would not think it, that may keep up his heart. I miss seeing him ere he went to you prison. But not shall keep me away again, one minute when I can see his face, for maybe the minutes are numbered and the count put small. I know I can be a comfort to him, poor lad. You would not think it now, but he'd always speak as kind and soft to me as if he were courting me like. He loved me above a bit and I am to leave him now to drear all the cruel slander they'll put upon him. I can pray for him at each hard word they say against him, if I can do not else. And he'll know what his mother is doing for him, poor lad, by the look on my face. Still, they made some look or gesture of opposition to her wishes. She turns sharp round on Mary, the old object of her petish attacks and said, now, Wench, once for all, I tell you this, he could never guide me and he'd sense enough not to try. What he could not do, don't try to. I shall go to Liverpool tomorrow and find my lad and stay with him through thick and thin. And if he had ease, why perhaps God of his mercy will take me too. The grave is a sure cure for an aching heart. She sank back in her chair, quite exhausted by the sudden effort she had made. But if they even offered to speak, she cut them short, whatever the subject might be, with the repetition of the same words, I shall go to Liverpool. No more could be said. The doctor's opinion had been so undecided. Mr. Bridge North had given his legal voice in favor of her going and Mary was obliged to relinquish the idea of persuading her to remain at home. If indeed, under all circumstances, it could be thought desirable. Best way will be, said Job, for me to hunt out Will early tomorrow morning, Mary, come at after with Jane Wilson. I know a decent woman where you two can have a bed and where we may meet together when I found Will, a foregoing to Mr. Bridge North's at two o'clock. For I can tell him not trust none of his clerks for hunting up Will if Jim's life's to depend on it. Now Mary disliked this plan inexpressibly. Her dislike was partly grounded on reason and partly on feeling. She could not bear the idea of deputing to anyone the active measures necessary to be taken in order to save Jim. She felt as if they were her duty, her right. She durst not trust to anyone the completion of her plan. They might not have energy or perseverance or desperation enough to follow out the slightest chance. Her love would endow her with all these qualities independent of the terrible alternative which awaited her in case all failed and Jim was condemned. No one could have her motives and consequently no one could have her sharpened brain, her despairing determination. Besides, only that was purely selfish. She could not endure the suspense of remaining quiet and only knowing the result when it was all accomplished. So with vehemence and impatience she rebutted every reason Joe produced for this plan. And of course, thus opposed by what appeared to him willfulness, he became more resolute, angry words were exchanged, and a feeling of estrangement rose up between them for a time as they walked homewards. But then came in Margaret with her gentleness like an angel of peace so calm and reasonable that both felt ashamed of their irritation and tacitly left the decision to her. Only, by the way, I think Mary could never have submitted and if it had gone against her, petnant and tearful as was her manner now to Job, the good old man who was helping her to work for Jim, although they differed as to the manner. Mary had better go, said Margaret, to her grandfather in a low tone. I know what she's feeling and it would be a comfort to her soon maybe to think that she did all she could herself. She would perhaps fancy it might have been different. Do grandfather let her? Mary had still, you see, little or no belief in Jim's innocence and besides, she thought if Mary saw will and heard herself from him that Jim had not been with him that Thursday night, it would in a measure break the force of the blow which was impending. Let me lock up house, grandfather, for a couple of days and go and stay with Alice. It's but little one like me can do. I know, she added softly, but by the blessing of God would and welcome and here comes one kindly use of money. I can hire them as will do for her what I cannot. Mrs. Davenport is a willing body and one who knows sorrow and sickness and I can pay her for her time and keep her there pretty near all together. So let that be settled and you take Mrs. Wilson, dear granddad and let Mary go find will and you can all meet together at after and I'm sure I wish you luck. Job consented with only a few dissenting grunts but on the whole with a very good grace for an old man who had been so positive only a few minutes before. Mary was thankful for Margaret's interference. She did not speak but threw her arms around snack and put up her rosy red mount to be kissed and even Job was attracted by the pretty, childlike gesture and when she drew near him afterwards like a little creature sidling up to some person whom it feels to have offended he bent down and blessed her as if she had bent a child of his own. To Mary the old man's blessing came like words of power. End of chapter 25. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Chapter 26 of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Kleghorn Gaskell. Chapter 26. The Journey to Liverpool. Like a bark upon the sea life is floating over death above, below and circling thee danger lurks in every breath. Parted art thou from the grave only by a plank most frail. Tossed upon the restless wave sport of every fickle gale. Let the skies be air so clear and so calm and still the sea. Shipwreck yet has he to fear who life's voyager will be. Rookert. The early trains for Liverpool on a Monday morning were crowded by attorneys, attorneys clerks, plaintiffs, defendants and witnesses all going to the assizes. They were a motley assembly, each with some cause for anxiety stirring at his heart, though after all that is saying little or nothing, for we are all of us in the same predicament through life, each with a fear and a hope from childhood to death. Among the passengers there was Mary Barton, dressed in the blue gown and obnoxious plaid shawl. Common as railroads are now in all places as a means of transit and especially in Manchester, Mary had never been on one before and she felt bewildered by the hurry, the noise of people and bells and horns, the whiz and the scream of the arriving trains. The very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. She had a back seat and looked towards the factory chimneys and the cloud of smoke which hovers over Manchester with a feeling akin to the Heimwe. She was losing sight of the familiar objects of her childhood for the first time and unpleasant as those objects are to most, she yearned after them with some of the same sentiment which gives pathos to the thoughts of the immigrant. The cloud shadows which give beauty to chatmoss, the picturesque houses of old Newton, what were they to Mary whose heart was full of many things? Yet she seemed to look at them earnestly as they glided past, but neither saw nor heard. She neither saw nor heard till some well-known names fell upon her ear. Two lawyers' clerks were discussing the cases to come on that sizes. Of course, the murder case, as it had come to be termed, held a conspicuous place in their conversation. They had no doubt of the result. Juries are always very unwilling to convict on circumstantial evidence it is true, said one, but here there can hardly be any doubt. If it had not been so clear a case, replied the other, I should have said that they were injudicious in hurrying on the trial so much. Still, more evidence might have been collected. They tell me, said the first speaker, the people in Gardner's office, I mean, that it was really fear the old gentleman would have gone out of his mind if the trial had been delayed. He was with Mr. Gardner as many as seven times on Saturday, and called him up at night to suggest that some letter should be written, or something done, to secure the verdict. Poor old man, answered his companion, who can wonder, an only son, such a death, the disagreeable circumstances attending it, I had not time to read the Guardian on Sunday, but I understand it was some dispute about a factory girl. Yes, some such person, of course she'll be examined, and Williams will do it in style. I shall slip out from our court to hear him if I can hit the nick of time. And if you can get a place you mean, for depend upon it the court will be crowded. I, I, the ladies, sweet souls, will come in shoals to hear a trial for murder, and see the murderer, and watch the judge put on his black cap. And then go home and groan over the Spanish ladies who take delight in bulls-fights, such unfeminine creatures. Then they went on to other subjects. It was but another drop to Mary's cup, but she was nearly in that state which Crab describes, for when so full the cup of sorrows flows, add but a drop it instantly overflows. And now they were in the tunnel, and now they were in Liverpool, and she must rouse herself from the torpor of mind and body which was creeping over her, the result of much anxiety and fatigue, and several sleepless nights. She asked a policeman the way to Milkhouse Yard, and following his directions with the Savoir Fair of a town-bred girl, she reached a little court leading out of a busy, throng street, not far from the docks. When she entered the quiet little yard she stopped to regain her breath and to gather strength, for her limbs trembled and her heart beat violently. All the unfavorable contingencies she had, until now, forbidden herself to dwell upon, came forward to her mind. The possibility, the bare possibility, of Jem being an accomplice in the murder, the still greater possibility that he had not fulfilled his intention of going part of the way with will, but had been let off by some little accidental occurrence from his original intention, and that he had spent the evening with those whom it was now too late to bring forward as witnesses. But sooner or later she must know the truth, so taking courage she knocked on the door of a house. Is this Mrs. Jones's, she inquired. Next door but one, was the curt answer, and even this extra minute was a reprieve. Mrs. Jones was busy washing and would have spoken angrily to the person who knocked so gently at the door if anger had been in her nature, but she was a soft, helpless kind of woman, and only sighed over the many interruptions she had had to her business that unlucky Monday morning. But the feeling which would have been anger in a more impatient temper took the form of prejudice against the disturber, whoever he or she might be. Mary's fluttered and excited appearance strengthened this prejudice in Mrs. Jones's mind as she stood stripping the soap suds off her arms while she eyed her visitor and waited to be told what her business was. But no words would come. Mary's voice seemed choked up in her throat. "'Pray, what do you want, young woman?' coldly asked Mrs. Jones at last. "'I want—oh, is Will Wilson here?' "'No, he is not,' replied Mrs. Jones, inclining to shut the door in her face. "'Is he not come back from the Isle of Man?' asked Mary, sickening. "'He never went. He stayed in Manchester too long, as perhaps you know already.' And again the door seemed closing. But Mary bent forward with suppliant action as some young tree-bends when blown by the rough autumnal wind, and gasped out. "'Tell me—tell me—where is he?' Mrs. Jones suspected some love affair, and perhaps one of the not most creditable kind, but the distress of the pale young creature before her was so obvious and so pitiable that, were she ever so sinful, Mrs. Jones could no longer uphold her short, reserved manner. "'He's gone this very morning, my poor girl. Step in, and I'll tell you about it.' "'Gone,' cried Mary. "'How gone! I must see him. It's a matter of life and death. He can save the innocent from being hanged. He cannot be gone. How gone!' "'Sailed, my dear. Sailed in the John Cropper this very blessed morning.' "'Sailed!' End of Chapter 26. CHAPTER 27 Of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Barton. By Elizabeth Kleghorn Gaskell. CHAPTER 27 IN THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS Yon is our quay, heart to the clamor in that mirey road, bounded and narrowed by yon-vessels-load, the lumbering wealth she empties round the place, package and parcel, hogshead, chest, and case, while the loud seamen and the angry hind, mingling in business, bellow to the wind. Crab. Mary staggered into the house. Mrs. Jones placed her tenderly in a chair, and there stood bewildered by her side. "'Oh, Father, Father,' muttered she, "'what have you done? What must I do? Must the innocent die? Or he, whom I fear, I fear? Oh, what am I saying?' said she, looking round affrighted and seemingly reassured by Mrs. Jones's countenance. I am so helpless, so weak, but a poor girl, after all. How can I tell what is right? Father, you have always been so kind to me, and you to be—nevermind, nevermind, all will come right in the grave.' "'Save us and bless us,' exclaimed Mrs. Jones, if I don't think she's gone out of her wits.' "'No, I am not,' said Mary, catching at the words, and with a strong effort controlling the mind. She felt to be wandering, while the red blood flushed to Scarlett, the here-to-for-white cheek. I'm not out of my senses. There is so much to be done, so much, and no one bit me to do it, you know, though I can't rightly tell what it is.' Looking up with bewilderment into Mrs. Jones's face, "'I must not go mad, whatever comes, at least not yet.' "'No,' bracing herself up, "'something may yet be done, and I must do it. "'Sailed,' did you say, the John Cropper, sailed. I—she went out of the dock last night, to be ready for the morning's tide. I thought she was not to sail till to-morrow, murmured Mary. So did Will. He's lodged here long, so we all call him Will,' replied Mrs. Jones. The mate had told him so, I believe, and he never knew different till he got to Liverpool on Friday morning. But as soon as he heard, he gave up going to the Isle of Man, and just ran over to Reel with the mate. Even John Harris, as has friends a bit beyond Abergele, you may have heard him speak on him, for they are great chums, though I have my own opinion of Harris. And he sailed, repeated Mary, trying by repetition to realize the fact to herself. I—he went on board last night to be ready for the morning's tide, as I said afore, and my boy went to see the ship go down the river, and came back oligog with the sight. Here, Charlie, Charlie! She called out loudly for her son, but Charlie was one of those boys who were never far to seek, as the Lancashire people say, when anything is going on—a mysterious conversation, an unusual event, a fire or a riot—anything, in short, such boys are the little omnipresent people of this world. Charlie had, in fact, been spectator and auditor all this time, though for a little while he had been engaged in dallying, and a few other mischievous feats in the washing-line, which had prevented his attention from being fully given to his mother's conversation with the strange girl who had entered. Oh, Charlie, there you are! Did you not see the John Cropper sail down the river this morning? Tell the young woman about it, for I think she hardly credits me. I saw her tugged down the river by a steamboat, which comes to the same thing, replied he. Oh, if I had but come last night, moaned Mary, but I never thought of it. I never thought but what he knew right when he said he would be back from the Isle of Man on Monday morning, and not a four. And now someone must die for my negligence. Die! exclaimed the lad. How? Oh, Will would have proved an alibi, but he's gone, and what am I to do? Don't give it up yet, cried the energetic boy, interested at once in the case. Let's have a try for him. We are but where we were if we fail. Mary roused herself. The sympathetic we gave her heart and hope. But what can be done? You say he's sailed. What can be done? But she spoke louder and in a more lifelike tone. No, I did not say he'd sailed. Mother said that, and women know not about such matters. You see, proud of his office of instructor and insensibly influenced, as all about her were, by Mary's sweet, earnest, lovely countenance. There are sand-banks at the mouth of the river, and ships can't get over them but at high water. Especially ships of heavy burden, like the John Cropper. Now she was tugged down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have to lie some time before the water will be high enough to float her over the banks. So hold up your head. You have a chance yet, though maybe but a poor one. But what must I do? asked Mary, to whom all this explanation had been a vague mystery. Do, said the boy impatiently, why have I not told you? Only women, begging your pardon, are so stupid and understanding about anything belonging to the sea. You must get a boat, and make all haste and sail after him, after the John Cropper. You may overtake her, or you may not. It's just a chance, but she's heavy laden, and that's in your favor. She'll draw many feet of water. Mary had humbly and eagerly—oh, how eagerly—listened to this young Sir Oracle's speech. But try as she would. She could only understand that she must make haste and sail somewhere. I beg your pardon, and her little acknowledgment of inferiority in this speech pleased the lad, and made him her still more zealous friend. I beg your pardon, said she, but I don't know where to get a boat. Are there boat stands? The lad laughed outright. You're not long in Liverpool, I guess. Boat stands. No. Go down to the pier. Any pier will do, and hire a boat. You'll be at no loss when, once you are there, only make haste. Oh, you need not tell me that, if I but knew how, said Mary, trembling with eagerness. But you say right. I never was here before, and I don't know my way to the place you speak on. Only tell me, and I'll not lose a minute. Mother, said the willful lad, I'm going to show her the way to the pier. I'll be back in an hour or so, he added in a lower tone. And before the gentle Mrs. Jones could collect her scattered wits sufficiently to understand half of the hastily formed plan, her son was scuttling down the street, closely followed by Mary's half-running steps. Presently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter into conversation with Mary, for once escaped from the reach of his mother's recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his curiosity. Ahem. What's your name? It's so awkward to be calling you young woman. My name is Mary. Mary Barton, answered she, anxious to propitiate one who seemed so willing to exert himself on her behalf. Or else she grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her speed, although her chest seemed tightened and her head throbbing from the rate at which they were walking. And you want Will Wilson to provide an alibi? Is that it? Yes. Oh, yes. Can we not cross now? No. Wait a minute. It's the teagle hoisting above your head I'm afraid of. And who is it that's to be tried? Jem. Oh, lad, can't we get past? They rushed under the great bales quivering in the air above their heads and pressed onward for a few minutes, till Master Charlie again saw fit to walk a little slower and ask a few more questions. Mary, is Jem your brother or your sweetheart that you're so set upon saving him? No, no, replied she, but with something of hesitation that made this rude boy yet more anxious to clear up the mystery. Perhaps he's your cousin then? Maybe a girl who has a cousin who is not a sweetheart. No, he's neither kith nor kin to me. What's the matter? What are you stopping for? said she, with nervous terror, as Charlie turned back a few steps and peered up a side street. Oh, nothing to flurry you so, Mary. I heard you say to Mother you had never been in Liverpool before, and if you'll only look up this street you may see the back windows of our exchange. Such a building as Yon is. With Nadimee hiding under a blanket, and Lord Admiral Nelson, and a few more people in the middle of the court. No, come here, as Mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window that caught her eye first to satisfy the boy. Here then, now you can see it. You can say, now, you've seen Liverpool exchange. Yes, to be sure it's a beautiful window, I'm sure, but are we near the boats? I'll stop as I come back, you know, only I think we'd better get on now. Oh, if the wind's in your favour, you'll be down the river in no time, and catch will I'll be bound, and if it's not, why, you know the minute it took you to look at the exchange will be neither here nor there. Another rush onwards to one of the long crossings near the dock caused a stoppage, and gave Mary time for breathing, and Charlie leisure to ask another question. You've never said where you come from? Manchester, replied she. Hey, then, you've a power of things to see. Liverpool beats Manchester hollow, they say. A nasty, smoky hole, bein' it? Are you bound to live there? Oh, yes, it's my home. Well, I don't think I could abide a home in the middle of smoke. Look there, now you see the river. That's something, now, you'd give a deal for in Manchester, look. And Mary did look, and saw down an opening made in the forests of mass belonging to the vessels and dock, the glorious river, along which white-sailed ships were gliding with the incense of all nations, not braving the battle but telling of the distant lands, spicy or frozen, that sent to the mighty mart for their comforts or their luxuries. She saw small boats passing to and fro on that glittering highway, but she also saw such puffs and clouds of smoke from the countless steamers that she wondered at Charlie's intolerance of the smoke of Manchester. Across the swing bridge, along the pier, and they stood breathless by a magnificent dock, where hundreds of ships lay motionless during the process of loading and unloading, the cries of the sailors, the variety of languages used by the passers-by, and the entire novelty of the sight compared with anything which Mary had ever seen, made her feel most helpless and forlorn, and she clung to her young guide as to one who alone, by his superior knowledge, could interpret between her and the new race of men by whom she was surrounded. For a new race sailors might be reasonably considered to a girl who had hitherto seen none but inland dwellers, and those for the greater part factory people. In that new world of sight and sound she still bore one prevailing thought, and though her eye glanced over the ships and the wide spreading river, her mind was full of the thought of reaching will. Why are we here? she asked of Charlie. There are no little boats about, and I thought I was to go in a little boat. Those ships are never meant for short distances, are they? To be sure not, replied he, rather contemptuously, but the John Cropper lay in this dock, and I know many of the sailors, and if I could see one I knew, I'd ask him to run up the mast and see if he could catch a sight of her in the offing. If she's weighed her anchor, no use for your going, you know. Mary assented quietly to this speech, as if she were as careless as Charlie seemed now to be about her overtaking will. But in truth her heart was sinking within her, and she no longer felt the energy which had hitherto upheld her. Her bodily strength was giving way, and she stood cold and shivering, although the noonday sun beat down with considerable power on the shadeless spot where she was standing. Here's Tom Bourne, said Charlie, and altering his manner from the patronizing key in which she had spoken to Mary, he addressed a weather-beaten old sailor who came rolling along the pathway where they stood. His hands and his pockets, and his quid in his mouth, with very much the air of one who had nothing to do but look about him and spit right and left. Addressing this old tar, Charlie made known to him his wish in slang, which to Mary was almost inaudible and quite unintelligible, and which I am too much of a land-lubber to repeat correctly. Mary watched looks and actions with the renovated keenness of perception. She saw the old man listen attentively to Charlie. She saw him eye her over from head to foot, and wind up his inspection with a little nod of approbation. For her very shabbiness and poverty of dress were creditable signs to the experienced old sailor, and then she watched him leisurely swing himself onto a ship in the basin, and, borrowing a glass, run up the mast with the speed of a monkey. He'll fall, said she, in a fright, clutching at Charlie's arm and judging the sailor from his storm-marked faced and unsteady walk on land, to be much older than he really was. Not he, said Charlie, he's at the mast head now. See he's looking through his glass and using his arms as steady as if he were on dry land. Why, I've been up the mast many and many a time, only don't tell mother. She thinks I'm to be a shoemaker, but I've made up my mind to be a sailor, only there's no good arguing with a woman. You'll not tell her, Mary? Oh, see, exclaimed she. His secret was very safe with her, for in fact she had not heard it. See, he's coming down, he's down. Speak to him, Charlie. But unable to wait another instant, she called out herself. Can you see the John Cropper? Is she there yet? I, I, he answered, and coming quickly up to them, he hurried them away to seek for a boat, saying the bar was already covered, and in an hour the ship would hoist her sails and be off. You've the wind right against you, and must use oars. No time to lose. They ran to some steps leading down to the water. The beckon to some waterman, who's suspecting the real state of the case, appeared in no hurry for a fare, but leisurely brought their boat alongside the stairs, as if it were a matter of indifference to them whether they were engaged or not, while they conversed together in a few words, and in an undertone respecting the charge they should make. Oh, pray make haste, called Mary. I want you to take me to the John Cropper. Where is she, Charlie? Tell them I don't rightly know the words, only make haste. In the offing, she is, sure enough, Miss, answered one of the men, shoving Charlie on one side, regarding him as too young to be a principal in the bargain. I don't think we can go, Dick, said he, with a wink to his companion. There's the gentleman over at New Brighton, Miss Wantsos. But may have the young woman will pay us handsome for giving her a last look at her sweetheart, in her pose the other. Oh, how much do you want? Only make haste. I have enough to pay you, but every moment is precious, said Mary. I that it is. Less than an hour won't take us to the mouth of the river and she'll be off by two o'clock. Poor Mary's ideas of plenty of money, however, were different to those entertained by the boatman. Only fourteen or fifteen shillings remained out of the sovereign Margaret had lent her, and the boatman, imagining plenty to mean no less than several pounds, insisted upon receiving a sovereign, an exorbitant fare by the by, although reduced from their first demand of thirty shillings. While Charlie, with the boys and patience of delay and disregard to money, kept urging, Give it to them, Mary, they'll none of them take you for less. It's your only chance. There is St. Nicholas ringing one. I've only got fourteen and nine pence, cried she in despair after counting over her money, but I'll give you my shawl and you can sell it for four or five shillings. Oh, won't that much do? Asked she in such a tone of voice that they must indeed have hard hearts who could refuse such agonized entreaty. They took her on board. And in less than five minutes she was rocking and tossing in a boat for the first time in her life, alone with two rough-looking, hard-looking men. CHAPTER XXVIII. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell. CHAPTER XXVIII. John Cropper, ahoy. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, a wind that follows fast and fills the white and rustling sail, and bends the gallant mast. And bends the gallant mast, my boys, while like the eagle free away the good-ship flies and leaves old England on the lee. Alan Cunningham. Mary had not understood that Charlie was not coming with her. In fact, she had not thought about it till she perceived his absence, as they pushed off from the landing-place, and remembered that she had never thanked him for all his kind interest in her behalf. And now his absence made her feel most lonely, even his, the little mushroom friend of an hour's growth. The boat threaded her way through the maze of larger vessels which surrounded the shore, bumping against one, kept off by the oars from going right against another, overshadowed by a third, till at length they were fairly out on the broad river, away from either shore, the sights and sounds of land being heard in the distance. And then came a sort of pause. Both wind and tide were against the two men, and labor as they would they made but little way. Once Mary and her impatience had risen up to obtain a better view of the progress they had made, but the men had roughly told her to sit down immediately, and she dropped on her seat like a chidden child, although the impatience was still at her heart. But now she grew sure they were turning off from the straight course which they had hitherto kept on the Cheshire side of the river, whether they had gone to avoid the force of the current, and after a short time she could not help naming her conviction, as a kind of nightmare dread and belief came over her, that everything animate and inanimate was in league against her one sole aim and object of overtaking will. They answered gruffly. They saw a boatman whom they knew, and were desirous of obtaining his services as a steersman, so that both might row with greater effect. They knew what they were about. So she sat silent with clenched hands, while the parley went on, the explanation was given, the favor asked and granted. But she was sickening all the time with nervous fear. They had been rowing a long, long time, half a day it seemed, at least, yet Liverpool appeared still close at hand, and Mary began almost to wonder that the men were not as much disheartened as she was, when the wind, which had been hitherto against them, dropped, and thin clouds began to gather over the sky, shutting out the sun and casting a chilly gloom over everything. There was not a breath of air, and yet it was colder than when the soft violence of the westerly wind had been felt. The men renewed their efforts. The boat gave a bound forwards at every pull of the oars. The water was glassy and motionless, reflecting tint by tint of the Indian ink sky above. Mary shivered, and her heart sank within her. Still now they evidently were making progress. Then the steersmen pointed to a rippling line on the river, only a little way off, and the men disturbed Mary, who was watching the ships that lay in what appeared to her the open sea, to get at their sails. She gave a little start and rose. Her patience, her grief, and perhaps her silence had begun to win upon the men. One second to the north is the John Cropper. Wins right now, and sails will soon carry us alongside of her. He had forgotten, or perhaps he did not like to remind Mary, that the same wind which now bore their little craft along with easy rapid motion would also be favourable to the John Cropper. But as they looked with straining eyes, as if to measure the decreasing distance that separated them from her, they saw her sails unfurl and flap in the breeze, till catching the right point they bellied forth into white roundness, and the ship began to plunge and heave, as if she were a living creature impatient to be off. Their heaving anchor, said one of the boatmen to the other, as the faint musical cry of the sailors came floating over the waters that still separated them. Full of the spirit of the chase, though as yet ignorant of Mary's motives, the men sprung to hoist another sail. It was fully as much as the boat could bear, in the keen, gusty east wind which was now blowing, and she bent and laboured and plowed, and creaked up braidingly as if tasked beyond her strength, but she sped along with a gallant swiftness. They drew nearer, and they heard the distant anhoi more clearly. It ceased. The anchor was up, and the ship was away. Mary stood up, steadying herself by the mast, and stretched out her arms, imploring the flying vessel to stay its course by that mute action, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. The men caught up their oars, and hoisted them in the air, and shouted to arrest attention. They were seen by the men aboard the larger craft, but they were too busy with all the confusion prevalent in an outward bound vessel to pay much attention. There were coils of ropes and seamen's chests to be stumbled over at every turn. There were animals not properly secured, roaming bewildered about the deck, adding their pitiful lowings and bleeding to the aggregate of noise. There were carcasses not cut up, looking like corpses of sheep and pigs rather than like mutton and pork. There were sailors running here and there and everywhere, having had no time to fall into method, and with their minds divided between thoughts of the land and the people they had left, and the present duties on board ship, while the captains drove hard to procure some kind of order by hasty commands given in a loud impatient voice, to right and left, starboard and lardboard, cabin and steerage. As he paced the deck with a chafed step, vexed at one or two little mistakes on the part of the mate, and suffering himself from the pain of separation from wife and children, but showing his suffering only by his outward irritation, he heard a hail from the shabby little riverboat that was striving to overtake his winged ship. For the men fearing that, as the ship was now fairly over the bar, they should only increase the distance between them, and being now within shouting range had asked of Mary her more particular desire. Her throat was dry, all musical sound had gone out of her voice, but in a loud, harsh whisper she told the men her errand of life and death, and they hailed the ship. We're come for one William Wilson, who is wanted to prove an alibi in Liverpool Assize Court's to-morrow. James Wilson is to be tried for a murder done on Thursday night, when he was with William Wilson. Anything more, Mrs. asked the boatman of Mary, in a lower voice, and taking his hands down from his mouth. Say, I'm Mary Barton. Oh, the ship is going on. Oh, for the love of heaven, ask them to stop. The boatman was angry at the little regard paid to his summons, and called out again, repeating the message with the name of the young woman who sent it, and interlarding it with Sailor's oaths. The ship flew along, away, the boat struggled after. They could see the captain take his speaking trumpet. And oh, and alas, they heard his words. He swore a dreadful oath. He called Mary a disgraceful name, and he said he would not stop his ship for any one, nor could he part with a single hand whoever swung for it. The words came in unpitying clearness with their trumpet sound. Mary sat down, looking like one who prays in the death agony. For her eyes were turned up to that heaven, where mercy dwelleth, while her blue lips quivered, though no sound came. Then she bowed her head and hid it in her hands. Hark! Yon Sailor hails us. She looked up, and her heart stopped its beating to listen. William Wilson stood as near the stern of the vessel as he could get, and unable to obtain the trumpet from the angry captain, made a tube of his own hands. So help me God, Mary Barton, I'll come back in the pilot boat time enough to save the life of the innocent. What does he say, asked Mary wildly, as the voice died away in the increasing distance, while the boatmen cheered in their kindled sympathy with their passenger. What does he say, repeated she, tell me, I could not hear. She had heard with her ears, but her brain refused to recognize the sense. They repeated his speech, all three speaking at once, with many comments, while Mary looked at them and then at the vessel far away. I don't rightly know about it, said she sorrowfully. What is the pilot boat? They told her, and she gathered the meaning out of the sailor's slang which enveloped it. There was a hope still, although so slight and faint. How far does the pilot go with the ship? To different distances, they said, some pilots would go as far as Holyhead for the chance of the homeward bound vessels, others only took the ships over the banks. Some captains were more cautious than others, and the pilots had different ways. The wind was against the homeward bound vessels, so perhaps the pilot aboard the John Cropper would not care to go far out. How soon would he come back? There were three boatmen and three opinions, varying from twelve hours to two days. Nay, the man who gave his vote for the longest time, on having his judgment disputed, grew stubborn and doubled the time, and thought it might be the end of the week before the pilot boat came home. They began disputing and urging reasons, and Mary tried to understand them, but independently of their nautical language a veil seemed drawn over her mind, and she had no clear perception of anything that passed. Her very words seemed not her own, and beyond her power of control, for she found herself speaking quite differently to what she meant. One by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her desolate, and, though a chance yet remained, she could no longer hope. She felt certain it, too, would fade and vanish. She sank into a kind of stupor. All outward objects harmonized with her despair. The gloomy leaden sky, the deep dark waters below, of a still heavier shade of color, the cold, flat yellow shore in the distance, which no ray lightened up, the nipping, cutting wind. She shivered with her depression of mind and body. The sails were taken down, of course, on the return to Liverpool, and the progress they made, rowing and tacking, was very slow. The men talked together, disputing about the pilots at first, and then about matters of local importance, in which Mary would have taken no interest at any time. And she gradually became drowsy, irrepressibly so, indeed, for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake, she sank away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay crouched on a rough heap of sails, rope, and tackles of various kinds. The measured bead of the waters against the sides of the boat, and the musical boom of the more distant waves were more lulling than silence, and she slept sound. Once she opened her eyes heavily and dimly saw the old gray, rough boatman, who had stood out the most obstinately for the full fair, covering her with his thick P-jacket. He had taken it off on purpose, and was doing it tenderly in his way, but before she could rouse herself up to thank him she had dropped off to sleep again. At last, in the dusk of evening, they arrived at the landing place from which they had started some hours before. The men spoke to Mary, but though she mechanically replied, she did not stir, so at length they were obliged to shake her. She stood up, shivering, and puzzled as to her whereabouts. Now, tell me where you are bound to, Mrs., said the gray old man, and maybe I can put you in the way. She slowly comprehended what he said, and went through the process of recollection, but very dimly and with much labor. She put her hand into her pocket and pulled out her purse, and shook its contents into the man's hand, and then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although they had turned away without asking for it. No, no, said the old man, who lingered on the step before springing into the boat, and whom she mutely offered the shawl. Keep it. It were only for you to try you. Some folks say they've no more, blunt, when all the while they've gotten a mint. Thank you, she said in a dull, low tone. Where are you bound to? I asked that question of four, said the gruff old fellow. I don't know. I am a stranger, replied she quietly, with a strange absence of anxiety under the circumstances. But you mun find out, then, he said sharply, peer-heads no place for a young woman to be standing on, gape-saying. I have a card somewhere, as will tell me, she answered, and the man, partly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to make way for the arrivals from some steamer. Mary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name of the street, where she was to have met Mr. Bridge North at two o'clock, where Job and Mrs. Wilson were to have been, and where she was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some respectable lodging. It was not to be found. She tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took out the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her pocket handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there. In fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled out her purse to reckon up her money. She did not know this, of course. She only knew it was gone. It added but little to the despair that was creeping over her, but she tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind became more cloudy. She strove to remember where Will had lodged, but she could not. Name, street, everything had passed away, and it did not signify. Better she were lost than found. She sat down quietly on the top-step of a landing, and gazed down into the dark, dank water below. Once or twice a spectral thought loomed among the shadows of her brain, a wonder whether beneath that cold, dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of earth, but she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive moments, and she forgot what she thought about before she could act upon it. So she continued sitting motionless, without looking up or regarding in any way the insults to which she was subjected. Through the darkening light the old boatman had watched her, interested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself. When the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his way towards it, across boats and along planks, swearing at himself while he did so for an old fool. He shook Mary's shoulder violently. Damn you, I asked you again where you're bound to. Don't sit there, stupid. Where are we going to? I don't know, sighed Mary. Come, come. I've asked with that story. You said a bit ago you'd had a card, which was to tell you where to go. I had, but I've lost it. Never mind. She looked again down upon the black mirror below. He stood by her, striving to put down his better self. But he could not. He shook her again. She looked up as if she had forgotten him. What do you want? She asked wearily. Come with me and be damned to you," replied he, clutching her arm to pull her up. She arose and followed him with the unquestioning docility of a little child. End of CHAPTER XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clegghorne Gaskell. CHAPTER XXIX A TRUE BILL AGAINST GEM. There are who, living by the legal pen, are held in honour, honourable men. Crab. At five minutes before two, Joe Blee stood upon the doorstep of the house where Mr. Bridge North lodged at a size-time. He had left Mrs. Wilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room for the old woman and Mary, a room which had frequently been his, on his occasional visits to Liverpool, but which he was thankful now to have obtained for them, as his own sleeping-place was a matter of indifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on the eve of the assizes. He was shown in to Mr. Bridge North, who was writing, Mary and Will Wilson had not yet arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad sea, but of this Joe, of course, knew nothing, and he did not as yet feel much anxiety about their non-appearance. He was more curious to know the result of Mr. Bridge North's interview that morning with Gem. Why, yes, said Mr. Bridge North, putting down his pen, I have seen him but to little purpose, I'm afraid. He's very impracticable, very. I told him, of course, that he must be perfectly open with me, or else I could not be prepared for the weak points. I named your name with a view of unlocking his confidence, but what did he say? asked Joe breathlessly. Why, very little. He barely answered me. Indeed, he refused to answer some questions, positively refused. I don't know what I can do for him. Then you think him guilty, sir? said Joe despondingly. No, I don't, replied Mr. Bridge North, quickly and decisively, much less than I did before I saw him. The impression, mind, to his only impression I rely upon your caution not to take it for fact. The impression, with an emphasis on the word, he gave me is that he knows something about the affair, but what he will not say, and so the chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy he'll be hung. That's all. He began to write again, for he had no time to lose. But he must not be hung, said Joe, with vehemence. Mr. Bridge North looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head. Did he say, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask, continued Joe? His words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that as I said before I can only give you the impression they conveyed to me. I told him, of course, who I was, and for what I was sent. He looked pleased, I thought, at least his face, sad enough when I went in, I assure you, brightened a little, that he said he had nothing to say, no defense to make. I asked him if he was guilty, then, and by way of opening his heart, I said I understood he had provocation enough, in as much as I heard that the girl was very lovely, and had jilted him, to fall desperately in love with that handsome young Carson, poor fellow. But James Wilson did not speak one way or another. I then went to particulars. I asked him if the gun was his, as his mother had declared. He had not heard of her admission, it was evident, from his quick way of looking up, and the glance of his eye, but when he saw I was observing him he hung down his head again, and merely said she was right, it was his gun. Well, said Job impatiently, as Mr. Bridge North paused. Nay, I have little more to tell you, continued that gentleman. I asked him to inform me, in all confidence, how it came to be found there. He was silent for a time, and then refused. Not only refused to answer that question, but candidly told me he would not say another word on the subject, and thanking me for my trouble and interest in his behalf, he all but dismissed me. Ungracious enough on the whole, was it not, Mr. Lee? And yet I assure you I am twenty times more inclined to think him innocent than before I had the interview. I wish Mary Barton would come, said Job anxiously. She and Will are a long time about it. I, that's our only chance, I believe, answered Mr. Bridge North, who was writing again. I sent Johnson off before twelve to serve him with his subpoena, and to say I wanted to speak with him. He'll be here soon, I've no doubt. There was a pause. Mr. Bridge North looked up again, and spoke. Mr. Duncombe promised to be here, to speak to his character. I sent him a subpoena on Saturday night. Juries go very little by such general and vague testimony as that to character. It is very right that they should not often, but in this instance unfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the alibi. Then the pen went again, scratch, scratch, over the paper. Job grew very fidgety. He sat on the edge of his chair, the more readily to start up when Will and Mary should appear. He listened intently to every noise and every step on the stair. Once he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of delight, but it was only Mr. Bridge North's clerk bringing him a list of those cases in which the grand jury had found true bills. He glanced over and pushed it to Job, merely saying, Of course we expected this, and went on with his writing. There was a true bill against James Wilson, of course. And yet Job now felt doubly anxious and sad. It seemed the beginning of the end. He had got, by imperceptible degrees, to think gem innocent. Little by little this persuasion had come upon him. Mary, tossing about in the little boat on the broad river, did not come, nor did Will. Job grew very restless. He longed to go and watch for them out of the window, but feared to interrupt Mr. Bridge North. At length his desire to look out was irresistible, and he got up and walked carefully and gently across the room, his boats creaking at every cautious step. The gloom which had overspread the sky, and the influence of which had been felt by Mary on the open water, was yet more perceptible in the dark, dull street. Job grew more and more fidgety. He was obliged to walk about the room, for he could not keep still, and he did so regardless of Mr. Bridge North's impatient little motions and noises, as the slow, stealthy, creaking movements were heard backwards and forwards behind his chair. He really liked Job, and was interested for gem, else his nervousness would have overcome his sympathy long before it did. But he could hold out no longer against the monotonous grating So at last he threw down his pen, locked his portfolio, and taking up his hat and gloves. He told Job he must go to the courts. But Will Wilson has not come, said Job and his may. Just wait while I run to his lodgings. I would have done it before, but I thought they'd be here every minute, and I were afraid of missing them. I'll be back in no time. No, my good fellow, I really must go. Besides, I begin to think Johnson must have made a mistake, and have fixed with this William Wilson to meet me at the courts. If you like to wait for him here, pray make use of my room, but I have an ocean I shall find him there. In which case I'll send him to your lodging, shall I? You know where to find me. I shall be here again by eight o'clock, and with the evidence of this witness what's to provide the alibi I'll have the brief drawn out and in the hands of counsel tonight. So saying he shook hands with Job and went his way. The old man considered for a minute as he lingered at the door, and then bent his steps toward Mrs. Jones's, where he knew, from reference to queer, odd, heterogeneous memoranda in an ancient black leather pocket-book, that Will lodged, and where he doubted not he should hear both of him and of Mary. He went there and gathered what intelligence he could out of Mrs. Jones's slow replies. He asked if a young woman had been there that morning, and if she had seen Will Wilson. No, why not? Why bless him, because he had sailed some hours before she came asking for him. There was a dead silence, broken only by the even, heavy sound of Mrs. Jones's ironing. Where is the young woman now, asked Job. Somewhere down at the docks, she thought. Charlie would know if he was in, but he wasn't. He was in mischief somewhere or other, she had no doubt. Boys always were. He would break his neck some day, she knew. So saying, she quietly spat upon her fresh iron to test its heat, and then went on with her business. Job could have boxed her, he was in such a state of irritation. But he did not, and he had his reward. Charlie came in, whistling with an air of indifference, assumed to carry off his knowledge of the lateness of the hour to which he had lingered about the docks. Here's an old man come to know where the young woman is who went out with thee this morning, said his mother, after she had bestowed on him a little motherly scolding. Where she is now I don't know. I saw her last sailing down the river after the John cropper. I'm afeard she won't reach her when changed, and she would be under way, and over the barn no time. She would have been back by now. It took Job some little time to understand this from the confused use of the feminine pronoun. Then he inquired how he could best find Mary. I'll run down again to the pier, said the boy. I'll warrant I'll find her. Thou shalt do no such a thing, said his mother, setting her back against the door. The lad made a comical face at Job, which met with no responsive look from the old man, whose sympathies were naturally in favor of the parent, although he would thankfully have availed himself of Charlie's offer, for he was weary and anxious to return to poor Mrs. Wilson, who would be wondering what had become of him. How can I best find her? Who did she go with, lad? But Charlie was sullen at his mother's exercise of authority before a stranger, and that that stranger's graved looks when he meant to have made him laugh. They were river-boatmen, that's all I know, said he. But what was the name of their boat, persevered Job. I never took no notice. The Anne or William, or some of them common names, I'll be bound. What pier did she start from? Asked Job despairingly. Oh, as for that matter, it were the stairs on the Princess pier she started from, but she'll not come back to the same, for the American steamer came up with the tide and anchored close to it, blocking up the way for all the smaller craft. It's a rough evening, too, to be out on, he maliciously added. Well, God's will be done. I did hope we could have saved the lad, said Job sorrowfully, but I'm getting very doubtful again. I'm uneasy about Mary, too, Barry. She's a stranger in Liverpool. So she told me, said Charlie, there's traps about for young women at every corner. It's a pity she's no one to meet her when she lands. As for that, replied Job, I don't see how anyone could meet her when we can't tell where she would have come to. I must trust her to coming right. She's getting spirits and scents. She'll most likely be for coming here again. Indeed, I don't know what else she can do, for she knows no other place in Liverpool. Mrs., if she comes, will you give your son leave to bring her to number eight, Batgarden Court, where there's friends waiting for her? I'll give him six pence for his trouble. Mrs. Jones pleased with the reference to her, gladly promised, and even Charlie, indignant as he was at first at the idea of his motions being under the control of his mother, was mollified at the prospect of six pence, and at the probability of getting nearer to the heart of the mystery. But Mary never came.