 CHAPTER XXXVIII Joeblee's Deception Oh, sad is the night-time, the night-time of sorrow, when through the deep gloom we catch but the boom of the waves that may well must to-morrow. Joeblee found Mrs. Wilson pacing about in a restless way, not speaking to the woman at whose house she was staying, but occasionally heaving such deep oppressive sighs as quite startled those around her. Well, said she, turning sharp round in her tottering walk up and down, as Joeblee came in. Well, speak, repeated she, before he could make up his mind what to say, for to tell the truth he was studying for some kind-hearted lie which might soothe her for a time. But now the real state of the case came blurting forth in answer to her impatient questioning. Well's not to the fore, but he'll maybe turn up yet, time enough. She looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting of such despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply. Then she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might have been expected from her previous excited manner, Don't go for to say that, thou dost not think it. Thou art well-nigh hopeless like me. I see'd all along my lad would be hung for what he never did. And better he were, and were shut out of this weary world, where there's neither justice nor mercy left. She looked up with tranced eyes as if praying, and then sat down. Nay, thou art off at a gallop, said Joeblee. Will has sailed this morning for sure, but that brave wench Mary Barton is after him, and will bring him back, I'll be bound, if she can get speech on him. He's not back yet. Come, come, hold up thy head, it will end all right. It will end all right, echoed she, but not as thou take'st it. Gem will be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads, where the Lord God wipes away all tears, and where the Lord Jesus speaks kindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left upon earth. Ay, Joe, yon's a blessed land, and I long to go to it, and yet I fret because Gem is hastening there. I would not fret if he and I could lie down to night to sleep our last sleep. Not a bit would I fret if folk would but know him to be innocent, as I do. They'll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they've hanged him for what he never did, replied Joe. Ay, that they will. Poor souls, may God have mercy on them when they find out their mistake. Presently Joeblee grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung about the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. It was pitch dark for the moon had not yet risen. You just go to bed, said he to the widow, you'll want your strength for tomorrow. Gem will be sadly off if he sees you so cut up as you look to-night. I'll step down again and find Mary. She'll be back by this time. I'll come and tell you everything, never fear. But now you go to bed. Thou art a kind friend, Joeblee, and I'll go, as thou wishest me. But oh! Mine thou come as straight off to me, and bring Mary as soon as thou'st lid on her. She spoke low, but very calmly. Ay, ay, replied Joeblee, slipping out of the house. He went first to Mr. Bridge North's, where it had struck him that Will and Mary might be all this time waiting for him. They were not there, however. Mr. Bridge North had just come in, and Joeblee went breathlessly upstairs to consult with him as to the state of the case. It's a bad job, said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he arranged his papers. Johnson told me how it was. The woman that Wilson lodged with told him. I doubt it's but a wild goose chase of that girl Barton. Our case must rest on the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner's previous character. A very vague and weak defense. However, I've engaged Mr. Clinton as counsel, and he'll make the best of it. Now, my good fellow, I must wish you good night and turn you out of doors. As it is, I shall have to sit up into the small hours. Did you see my clerk as you came upstairs? You did? Then may I trouble you to ask him to step up immediately? After this, Joeblee could not stay, and making his humble bow, he left the room. Then he went to Mrs. Jones's. She was in, but Charlie had slipped off again. There was no holding that boy. Nothing kept him but lock and key, and they did not always, for once she had locked him up in the garret, and he had got off through the skylight. Perhaps now he was gone to see after the young woman down at the docks. He never wanted an excuse to be there. Unasked, Job took a chair, resolved to wait Charlie's reappearance. Mrs. Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of Charlie and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for India, and who, in leaving her the boy, had evidently left her rather more than she could manage. She moaned and croaked over sailors and seaport towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless nights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after Job had left off attending to her, and was only trying to harken to every step and every voice in the street. At last Charlie came in, but he came alone. Yon Mary Barton has gotten into some scraper another, said he, addressing himself to Job. He's not to be heard of at any of the piers, and Bourne says it were a boat from the Chester side as she went aboard of. So there's no hearing of her till tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning she'll have to be in court at nine o'clock to bear witness on a trial, said Job sorrowfully. So she said, at least some thought of the kind, said Charlie, looking desirous to hear more. But Job was silent. He could not think of anything further that could be done, so he rose up, and thanking Mrs. Jones for the shelter she had given him, he went out into the street, and there he stood still, to ponder over probabilities and chances. After some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where he had left Mrs. Wilson. There was nothing else to be done, but he loitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes might have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be spared her questionings. He went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady awaited his coming in bringing the girl, who, she had been told, was to share the old woman's bed. But in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting the candle, she could see to have a nap by fire-light, she said, that the voice of Mrs. Wilson was heard from the little back room where she was to pass the night. Who's there? Job gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think herself mistaken. The landlady, having no such care, dropped the snuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless apologies, convinced the listening woman that Job had returned. Job—Job Lee, she cried out nervously. Oh, dear, said Job himself, going reluctantly to her bedroom door. I wonder if one little lie would be a sin as things stand. It would happen to give her sleep, and she wouldn't have sleep for many and many a night, not to call sleep if things goes wrong to-morrow. I'll chance it, anyway. Job, art thou there? She asked again with the trembling impatience that told in every tone of her voice. I, sure, I thought that had been asleep by this time. A sleep? How could I sleep till I knowed if Will were found? Now for it, muttered Job to himself, then in a louder voice, never fear he's found and safe ready for to-morrow. And he'll prove that thing from my poor lad, Willie, he'll bear witness that Jim were with him. Oh, Job, speak! Tell me all. In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Job. Happen one prayer will do for the sum total. Any rate must go on now. Aye, aye, shouted he, through the door. He can prove all, and Jim will come off as clear as a new-born babe. He could hear Mrs. Wilson's wrestling movements, and in an instant guessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice uplifted in thanksgiving and praise to God, stopped at times by sobs of gladness and relief. And when he heard this, his heart misgave him, for he thought of the awful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited her in the morning. He saw the short-sightedness of falsehood, but what could he do now? While he listened she ended her grateful prayers. And Mary, thoust found her at Mrs. Jones's Job, said she, continuing her inquiries. He gave a great sigh. Yes, she was safe, safe enough, second time of going. God forgive me, muttered he, who to thought of my turning out such an errant liar in my old days? Bless the wench. Is she here? Why does she not come to bed? I am sure she is need. Job coughed away his remains of conscious and made answer. She was a bit weary and overdone with her sail, and Mrs. Jones asked her to stay there all night. It was nigh at hand to the courts, while she will have to be in the morning. It comes easy enough after a while, groaned out Job. The father of lies helps one, I suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as truth. She's done questioning now, that's one good thing. I'll be off before Satan and she are at me again. He went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting. Her husband was in bed and asleep long ago. But Job had not yet made up his mind what to do. He could not go to sleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in Liverpool. Thou let me sit up in this arm-chair, he said, at length of the woman, who stood expecting his departure. He was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. But, indeed, she was too sleepy to have opposed him. She was too glad to be released and go to bed. CHAPTER XXXI 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. XXXI. How Mary Passed the Night. To think that all this long and terminable night, which I have passed in thinking on two words, guilty, not guilty, like one happy moment or many ahead have flown unheeded by, or happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss of bright tomorrows, or far happier still, as deep breath buried in forgetfulness. Oh, all the dismalest images of death did swim before my eyes. Wilson. And now, where was Mary? How Job's heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if he could have seen her, for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about her, and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her and himself, her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness inyielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to follow and find out will. She did not pass that night in bed any more than Job, but she was under a respectable roof and among kind the rough people. She had offered no resistance to the old boatman when he had clutched her arm in order to ensure her following him, as he threaded the crowded dockways and dived up strange by-street. She came on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she was going, and glad in a dead, heavy way that someone was deciding things for her. He led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could be, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of the street, and had a country town look about it in the middle of that bustling back street. He pulled her into the house-place, and relieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way, he exclaimed, There! giving a great slap of one hand on her back. The room was light and bright, and roused merry, perhaps the slap on her back might help a little too, and she felt the awkwardness of accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who had been moving about the fireplace on her entrance. The boatman took it very quietly, never daining to give any explanation, but sitting down in his own particular chair and chewing tobacco while he looked at merry, with the most satisfied air imaginable, half triumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and half defying, as if daring her to escape. The old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be told, who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously. But as she looked on in amazement, the girl's cheek flushed, and then blanched to a dead whiteness. A film came over her eyes, and catching at the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a heap on the floor. Both man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They raised her up, still insensible, and he supported her on one knee while his wife patted away for some cold, fresh water. She threw it straight over merry, but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained closed, and the face as pale as ashes. How was she, Ben? asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting powerless hands. How should I know? answered her husband gruffly. Well, ah well, in a soothing tone, such as you used to irritated children, and as if half to herself, I only thought you might, you know, as you brought her home, poor thing. You must not ask Ought about her, but that she needs help. I wish I'd my salts at home, but I lent him to Mrs. Burton last Sunday in church, for she could not keep awake through the sermon. Dear Remy, how white she is! Dear, you hold her up a bit, said her husband. She did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for his short, sharp interruptions as she went on, and indeed, to her old loving heart, his crossest words, fell like pearls and diamonds, for he had been the husband of her youth, and even he, rough and crabbed as he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, although not for worlds if he could have helped it, would he have shown any of the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside? What's the old fellow after, said she, bending over Mary, so as to accommodate the grouping head? Taking my pen, as I've had for better nor five year, bless us and save us, he's burning it. Aye, I see now he sees whits as bout him. Burnt feathers is always good for a faint. But they don't bring her round, poor winch. Now what's he after next? Well, he is a bright one, my old man. That I never thought of that, to be sure, exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of smuggled spirits labelled Golden Vosser from a corner cupboard in their little room. That'll do, said she, as the dosy poured into Mary's open mouth made her a start and cough. Bless the man, it's just like him to be so tender and thoughtful. Not a bit, snarled he. As he was relieved by Mary's returning colour and opened eyes, and wondering sensible gaze, not a bit. I never was such a fool of four. His wife helped Mary to rise and placed her in a chair. All's right now, young woman. Asked the boatman anxiously. Yes, sir, and thank you. I'm sure, sir, I don't know rightly how to thank you. Faulted Mary softly forth. Be hanged to you and your thanks. And he shook himself, took his pipe, and went out without daining another word, leaving his wife sorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within her doors. Mary watched the boatman leave the house, and then turning her sorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to rise with the intention of going away, where she knew not. Nay, nay, where thou beest, thou art not fit to go out into the street? Perhaps, sinking her voice a little, thou art a bad one. I almost missed out thee, thou art so pretty. Well, well, it's the bad ones as have the broken hearts sure enough. Good folk never get utterly cast down. They've always gotten hope in the Lord. It's the sinful as bear they bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor souls. Thus them we ought, most of all, to pity and help. She shan I leave the house to-night, choose who she is. Worst woman in Liverpool, she shan I. I wished I knew where the old man picked her up, that I do. Mary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy her hostess in weak broken sentences. I'm not a bad one, Mrs. Indeed. Your master took me out to see after his ship as it sailed. There was a man in it as might save a life at the trial tomorrow. The captain would not let him come, but he says he'll come back in the pilot boat. She felt a sobbing at the thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort her, beginning with her accustomed. Well, well, and he'll come back, I'm sure. I know he will. So keep up your heart. Don't fret about it. He's sure to be back. Oh, I'm afraid. I'm so afraid he won't, cried Mary, consoled nevertheless by the woman's assertions all groundless as she knew them to be. Still talking, half to herself and half to Mary, the old woman prepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. But Mary shook her head at the preferred food, and only drank a cup of tea with thirsty eagerness. For the spirits had thrown her into a burning heat, and rendered each impression received through her senses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while her head ached in a terrible manner. She disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly gone. She used quite different expressions to those she intended, so she kept silent. While Mrs. Sturges, for that was the name of her hostess, talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about incessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in Mary's head. She felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go. But where? Presently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when he went away. He kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for him, and snarled at all she said. Mary attributed this to his finding her still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave the house. But she was mistaken. By and by, he said, looking right into the fire as if addressing it, wins right against them. I, I, and is it so, said his wife, who, knowing him well, knew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy. Well-a-well, wind changes often at night, time enough before morning. I'd bet a penny it has changed and now looked. She looked out of her little window, at a weather-cock nearer, glittering in the moonlight, and as she was a sailor's wife, she instantly recognized the unfavorable point at which the indicator seemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh turned into the room, and began to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort. There's no one else who can prove what you want at the trial tomorrow is there. Asked she, no one answered Mary, and you've no clue to the one who is really guilty if Tother is not. Mary did not answer, but trembled all over. Sturges saw it. Don't bother her with I questions, said he to his wife. She won't go to bed, for she's all a chevre with the sea air. I'll see after the wind hang it in the weather-cock, too. Tide will help him when it turns. Mary went upstairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took the stranger in. Mrs. Sturges led her into a little room redolent of the sea and foreign lands. There was a small bed for one son bound for China, and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing in the Baltic. The sheets looked made out of sailcloth, but were fresh and clean in spite of their brownness. Against the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with their names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught and gazed until they filled with tears, but she brushed the drops away with the back of her hand, and in cheerful tone went on to assure Mary the bed was well-air. I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please," said Mary, sinking down on the window-seat. Come now, said Mrs. Sturges. My master told me to see you to bed Naimun. What's the use of watching? A watch-pot never boils, and I see you are after watching that weather-cock. Why now? I try never to look at it, else I could do not-house. My heart many a time goes sick when the wind rises, but I'll turn away and work away, and try never to think on the wind, but on what I have to get into do. Let me stay up a little, pleaded Mary, as her hostess seemed so resolute about seeing her to bed. Her looks won her suit. Well, I suppose I'm on. I shall catch it downstairs, I know. He'll be in a fidget till you're getting to bed, I know, so you might be quiet if you're so bent upon staying up. And quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging weather-cock through the night. She sat on the little window-seat, her hand holding back the curtain, which shaded the room from the bright moonlight without, her head resting its weariness against the corner of the window frame, her eyes burning and stiff with the intensity of her gaze. The ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into the watcher's room. It was the morning of the day of the trial. End of Chapter 31. Chapter 32 of Mary Barton. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings earn the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Stephanie DuPal de Martin. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clegg Horngaskel. Chapter 32. The trial and verdict, not guilty. Thou standsteer-rained, that with presumption impious and accursed, thou hast deserved God's high prerogative, making thy fellow mortals life and death, weight on thy moody and diseased passions, that with a violent and untimely steel hath set abroach the blood that should have ebbed and calm and natural current. To some all in one wild name, a name the pale air freezes at, and every cheek of man sinks in with horror. Thou art a cold and midnight murderer. Milman's Fazio. Of all the restless people who found that night's hours agonizing from excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was perhaps the most restless. He had slept but little since the blow had fallen. His waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which seemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers. And this night, of all others, was the most sleepless. He turned over and over again in his mind the wonder if everything had been done, that could be done, to ensure the conviction of Jim Wilson. He almost regretted the haste with which he had urged for the proceedings, and yet, until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no peace on earth for him. I don't know that he exactly used the term vengeance in his thoughts. He spoke of justice and probably thought of his desired end as such. No peace either bodily or mental, for he moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp of a wild beast and cage. And if he compelled his aching limbs to cease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to convulsions, and he recommended his walk as the lesser evil, and the more bearable fatigue. With daylight increased power of action came, and he drove off to arouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and inquiries. And when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the courts should be opened, and the trial begin. What were all the living, why for daughters? What were they in comparison with the dead, the murdered son who lay unburied still, in compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed purpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death before he committed the body to the rest of the grave? At nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of rendezvous. The judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the witnesses, all were gathered together within the building. And besides these were many others, personally interested in some part of the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part. Joe Beleg, Ben Sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was Charlie Jones. Joe Beleg had carefully avoided any questioning for Mrs. Wilson that morning. Indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen up early to go out once more to make inquiry for Mary, and when he could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to undeceive Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late. And if the blow were inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of the impeding evil as long as possible. She took her place in the witness room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious. As Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, Mr. Bridge North's clerk beckoned to him. Here's a letter for you from our client. Job sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but he dreaded a confession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope. The letter ran as follows. Dear friend, I thank you heartily for your goodness in finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me, whatever they may do to other people. But I am not the less obliged to you, dear friend. I foresee things will go against me, and no wonder. If I was a jury man, I should say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought against him as maybe brought against me tomorrow. So it's no blame to them if they do. But, Job leg, I think I need not tell you. I am as guiltless in this matter as the babe I'm born, although it is not in my power to prove it. If I did not believe that you thought me innocent, I cannot write as I do now to tell you my wishes. You'll not forget they are the words of a man shortly to die. Dear friend, you must take care of my mother. Not in the money way, for she will have enough for her and Aunt Alice. But you must let her talk to you of me and show her that whatever others may do, you think I died innocent. I don't reckon she'll stay long behind when we are all gone. Be tender with her, Job, for my sake. And if she is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone through. I know mother will never doubt me, God bless her. There is one other whom I fear I have loved too dearly, and yet the loving her has made the happiness of my life. She will think I have murdered her lover. She will think I have caused the grief she must be feeling. And she must go on thinking so. It is hard upon me to say this, but she must. It will be best for her, and that's all I ought to think on. But dear Job, you are a hearty fellow for your time of life, and may live many years to come. And perhaps you could tell her when you felt sure you were drawing near your end, that I songly told you, as I do now, that I was innocent of this thing. You must not tell her for many years to come, but I cannot well bear to think on her living through a long life, and hating the thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying with that hatred to me in her heart. It would hurt me soar in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as it would be till she was told. I must not let myself think on how she must be viewing me now. So God bless you, Job leg, and no more from yours to command. James Wilson. Job turned the letter over and over when he had read it, sighed deeply, and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he had about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to the door of the witness room to ask if Mary Barton was there. As the door opened, he saw her sitting within against a table on which her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within them. It was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to strike Job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of Mrs. Wilson's voice and passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations which told him as well as words could do, for she was not within view of the door and he did not care to go in, that she was at any rate partially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night. Sorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court, neither Mrs. Wilson nor Mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness room door. As soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the present scene, he perceived that the trial of James Wilson for the murder of Henry Carson was just commencing. The clerk was gabbling over the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed question, how say you, guilty or not guilty? Although but one answer was expected, what customary in all cases, there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity, even in this hackneyed part of the proceeding. While the prisoner at the bar stood with compressed lips looking at the judge with his outward eyes, but with far other indifferent scenes presented to his mental vision, a sort of rapid recapitulation of his life, remembrances of his childhood, his father, so proud of him, his firstborn child, his sweet little playfellow Mary, his hopes, his love, his despair, yet still yet ever and ever his love, the blank wide world it had been without her love, his mother, his childless mother, but not long to be so, not long to be away from all she loved, nor during that time to be oppressed with doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's heart, he stared from his instance pause and said in a low firm voice, not guilty my lord. The circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the causes of suspicion against Jem were as well known to most of the audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of conversation going on among the people, while the leading counsel for the prosecution made his very effective speech. That's Mr. Carson, the father sitting behind Sergeant Wilkinson. What a noble-looking old man he is, so stern and inflexible with such classical features. Does he not remind you of some of the busts of Jupiter? I am more interested by watching the prisoner, criminals always interest me. I try to trace in the features, common to humanity some expression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves from their kind. I have seen a good number of murderers in my day, but I have seldom seen one with such marks of cane on his countenance as the man at the bar. Well, I am no physiognomist, but I don't think his face strikes me as bad. It certainly is gloomy and depressed and not unnaturally so considering his situation. Only look at his low-resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white compressed lips. He never looks up, just watch him. His forehead is not so low as if he had that massive black hair removed and is very square, which some people say is a good sign. If others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would have been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little previous to the trial and asked for downcast eye and compressed lip. It is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now. Nothing to do with character, my good fellow. Poor Jem, his raven hair, his mother's pride and so often fondly caressed by her fingers. Was that too to have its influence against him? The witnesses were called. At first they consisted principally of policemen, who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what were the material points they were called on to prove and did not lose the time of the court on listening to anyone unnecessary. Clear as day against the prisoner, whispered one attorney's clerk to another. Black as night, you mean, replied his friend, and they both smiled. Jane Wilson, who she, some relation, I suppose, from the name, the mother, she that is to prove the gun part of the case. Oh, I, I remember. Rather hard on her too, I think. Then both were silent as one of the officers of the court ushered Mrs. Wilson into the witness box. I have often called her the old woman and an old woman because, in truth, her appearance was so much beyond her ears, which could not be many above 50. But partly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of pain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to her sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the idea of age. But now she might have seemed more than 70. Her lines were so set in deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk so feeble. She was trying to check her sobs into composure, and unconsciously was striving to behave as she thought would best please her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her uncontrolled impatience. He had buried his face in his arms, which rested on the front of the dock, an attitude he retained during the greater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him. The council began the examination. Your name is Jane Wilson, I believe. Yes, sir. The mother of the prisoner at the bar? Yes, sir, with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping, but earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted, as I have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her behavior. The barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination, tending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was the prisoners. She had committed herself so fully to the policeman that she could not well retract. So without much delay in bringing the question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in court and the inquiry made. That gun belongs to your son, does it not? She clenched the sides of the witness box in her efforts to make her parched tongue utter words. At last she moaned forth. Oh, Jem. Jem, what one I say? Every one bent forward to hear the prisoner's answer, although in fact it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. He lifted up his head and with a face brimming full of pity for his mother, yet resolved into endurance said, tell the truth, mother. And so she did with the fidelity of a little child. Everyone felt that she did and the little colloquy between mother and son did them some slight service in the opinion of the audience. But the awful judge sat unmoved and the jury men changed not a muscle of their countenances. While the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly through this part of the case, including the fact of Jem's absence from home on the night of the murder and bringing every admission to bear right against the prisoner, it was over. She was told to go down, but she could no longer compel her mother's heart to keep silence and suddenly turning towards the judge with whom she imagined the verdict to rest, she thus addressed him with her choking voice. And now, sir, I've told you the truth and the whole truth as he bid me, but don't you let what I have said go for to hang him. Oh, my Lord judge, take my word for it. He's as innocent as the child as yet to be born. For sure I, who am his mother, have nursed him on my knee and been gladdened by the sight of him every day since, ought to know him better than yawned pack of fellows, indicating the jury well. She strove against her heart to render her words distinct and clear for her dear son's sake. Who I'll go bail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. My Lord judge, he's so good I often wondered what harm there was in him. Many is the time when I've been fretted, for I'm frabbed enough at times. When I've scolded myself and said, you ungrateful thing, the Lord God has given you gem. And isn't that blessing enough for you? But he has seen fit to punish me. If gem is taken from me, I shall be a childless woman, and very poor, having not left to love on earth. And I cannot say his will be done. I cannot, my Lord judge, why cannot? While sobbing out these words, she was led away by the officers of the court, but tenderly and reverently, with the respect which great sorrow commands. The stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from every witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor gem. Already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been heard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the deceased. Indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to interfere, to prevent some probable act of violence. It only remained to bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder. The clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had overheard gem's angry language to Mr. Carson, and his report in the first instance had occasioned the subpoena to marry. And now she was to be called on to bear witness. The court was by this time almost as full as it could hold, but fresh attempts were being made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious to see and hear this part of the trial. Old Mr. Carson felt an additional beat at his heart of the thought of seeing the fatal Helen, the cause of all, a kind of interest in her yet repugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead? Nay, perhaps in her way, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so bitterly grieving over? And yet he felt as if he aboard her and her rumored loveliness, as if she were the curse against him. And he grew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and would feign have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing over her lover's untimely end. For you see, it was a fixed idea in the minds of all that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young gentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost stern-looking smith who had to toil for his daily bread. Hitherto the effect of the trial had equaled Mr. Carson's most sanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came over the face of the Avenger, over that countenance once the smile had departed, never more to return. All eyes were directed to the door through which the witnesses entered. Even Jem looked up to catch one glimpse before he hid his face from her look of aversion. The officer had gone to fetch her. She was in exactly the same attitude as when Job Leg had seen her two hours before through the half-open door. Not a finger had moved. The officer summoned her, but she did not stir. She was so still he thought she had fallen asleep, and he stepped forward and touched her. She started up in an instant and followed him with a kind of rushing, rapid motion into the court, into the witness box. And amid all that sea of faces misty and swimming before her eyes, she saw but two clear bright spots, distinct and fixed, the judge who might have to condemn, and the prisoner who might have to die. The mellow sunlight streamed down that high window on her head, and fell on the rich treasurer of her golden hair, stuffed away in masses under her little bonnet cap, and in those warm beans, the motes kept dancing up and down. The wind had changed, had changed almost as soon as she had given up her watching. The wind had changed, and she heeded it not. Many who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, mere coloring were disappointed, for her face was deadly white and almost set in its expression, while a mournful bewildered soul looked out of the depths of those soft, deep gray eyes. But others recognized a higher and a stranger kind of beauty, one that would keep its hold on the memory for many after years. I was not there myself, but one who was told me that her look and indeed her whole face was more like the well-known engraving from Guido's picture of Beatrice Chenchi than anything else he could give me an idea of. He added that her countenance haunted him, like the remembrance of some wild, sad melody heard in childhood, that it would perpetually recur with its mute, imploring agony. With all the court reeling before her, always save and accept those awful two, she heard a voice speak and answered the simple inquiry of something about her name, mechanically as if in a dream. So she went on for two or three more questions with a strange wonder in her brain, at the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she was placed. Suddenly she was roused, she knew not how or by what. She was conscious that all was real, that hundreds were looking at her, that true-sounding words were being extracted from her, that that figure so bowed down with a face concealed with both hands was really gem. Her face flushed scarlet and then paler than before. But in dread of herself of the tremendous secret imprisoned within her, she exerted every power that she had to keep in the full understanding of what was going on, of what she was asked, and of what she answered. With all her faculties preternaturally alive and sensitive, she heard the next question from the pert Young Barrister who was delighted to have the examination of this witness. And pray, may I ask, which was the favored lover? You say you knew both these young men. Which was the favored lover? Which did you prefer? And who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so lightly to ask of her heart's secrets? That he should dare to ask her to tell before that multitude assembled there, what woman usually whispers with blushes and tears and many hesitations to one ear alone? So for an instant, a look of indignation contracted Mary's brow as she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent counselor. But in that instant, she saw the hands removed from a face beyond, behind, and accountants revealed of such intense love and woe, such a deprecating dread of her answer, and suddenly her resolution was taken. The present was everything, the future, that vast shroud it was maddening to think upon, but now she might own her fault, but now she might even own her love. Now when the beloved stood thus, a board of men, there would be no feminine shame to stand between her and her avowal. So she also turned towards the judge, partly to mark that her answer was not given to the monkey-filled man who questioned her, and likewise that the face might be averted from and her eyes not gaze upon the form that contracted with the dread of the words he anticipated. He asks me which of them two I like best? Perhaps I like Mr. Harry Carson once. I don't know, I've forgotten. But I love James Wilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell, above all else on earth put together, and I love him now better than ever, though he has never known a word of it till this minute. For you see, sir, mother died before I was 13 before I could know right from wrong about some things, and I was giddy in vain and ready to listen to any praise of my good looks, and this poor young Mr. Carson fell in with me and told me he loved me, and I was foolish enough to think he met me marriage. The mother is a pitiful loss to a girl, sir, and so I used to fancy I could like to be a lady and rich and never know want any more. I never found out how dearly I loved another till one day when James Wilson asked me to marry him, and I was very hard and sharp in my answer. For indeed, sir, I did deal to bear just then, and he took me at my word and left me, and from that day to this I've never spoken a word to him or said eyes on him. Though I'd faint have done so to try and show him, we had both been too hasty. For he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute before I knew I loved far above my life, said she, dropping her voice as she came to the second confession of the strength of her attachment. But if the gentleman asks me which I love the best, I make answer. I was flattered by Mr. Carson and pleased with his flattery, but James Wilson, I, she covered her face with her hands to hide the burning scarlet blushes which even dyed her fingers. There was a little pause still, though her speech might inspire pity for the prisoner and only strengthened the supposition of his guilt. Presently the counselor went on with his examination. But you have seen, young Mr. Carson, since your rejection of the prisoner. Yes, often. You have spoken to him, I conclude, at these times. Only once to call speaking. And what was the substance of your conversation? Did you tell him you found, you preferred his rival? No, sir, I don't think as I've done wrong in saying. Now, as things stand, what my feelings are, but I never would be so bold as to tell one young man I cared for another. I never named James' name to Mr. Carson, never. Then what did you say when you had this final conversation with Mr. Carson? You can give me the substance of it if you don't remember the words. I'll try, sir, but I'm not very clear. I told him I could not love him and wished to have nothing more to do with him. He did his best to over persuade me, but I kept steady and at last I ran off. And you never spoke to him again? Never. Now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. Did you ever tell the prisoner at the bar of Mr. Henry Carson's attentions to you, of your acquaintance in short? Did you ever try to excite his jealousy by boasting of a lover so far above you and station? Never, I never did, said she, in so firm and distinct a manner as to leave no doubt. Were you aware that he knew of Mr. Henry Carson's regard for you? Remember, you are on your oath. Never, sir, I was not aware until I heard of the quarrel between them and what Jem had said to the policeman and that was after the murder. To this day I can't make out who told Jem. Oh, sir, may not I go down? For she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily strength which she had compelled to her aid for a time suddenly giving way and was conscious that she was losing all command over herself. There was no occasion to detain her longer she had done her part. She might go down. The evidence was still stronger against the prisoner but now he stood erect and firm with self-respect in his attitude and a look of determination on his face which almost made it appear noble yet he seemed lost in thought. Job Leg had all this time been trying to soothe and comfort Mrs. Wilson who would first be in the court in order to see her darling and then when her sobs became irrepressible had to be led out into the open air and sat there weeping on the steps of the courthouse. Who would have taken charge of Mary on her release from the witness box? I do not know if Mrs. Sturgis, the boatman's wife had not been there brought by her interest in Mary towards whom she now pressed in order to urge her to leave the scene of the trial. No, no, said Mary to the proposition. I must watch that they don't hang him. You know I must. Oh, they'll not hang him, never fear. Besides, the wind has changed and that's in his favor. Come away, you're so hot and first white and then red. I'm sure you're ill, just come away. Oh, I don't know about anything but that I must stay, replied Mary in a strange hurried manner catching hold of some rails as if she feared some bodily force would be employed to remove her. So Mrs. Sturgis just waited patiently by her, every now and then peeping among the congregation of heads in the body of the court to see if her husband were still there. And there he always was to be seen looking and listening with all his might. His wife felt easy that he would not be wanting her at home until the trial was ended. Mary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. She wanted them to steady her in that heaving whirling court. She thought the feeling of something hard compressed within her hand would help her to listen for it was such pain, such weary pain in her head to strive to attend to what was being said. They were all at sea sailing away on billowy waves and everyone speaking at once and no one heeding her father who was calling on them to be silent and listen to him. Then again for a brief second the court stood still and she could see the judge sitting up there like an idol with his trappings so rigid and stiff and gem opposite looking at her as if to say, am I to die for what you know you're? Then she checked herself and by a great struggle brought herself round to an instant sanity. But the round of thought never stood still and off she went again and every time her power of struggling against the growing delirium grew fainter and fainter. She muttered low to herself but no one heard her except her neighbor, Mrs. Gerges. All were too closely attending to the case for the prosecution which was now being wound up. The counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross examination and reserving to himself the right of calling the witnesses forward again. For he had received so little and such vague instructions and understood that so much depended on the evidence of one who was not forthcoming that in fact he had little hope of establishing anything like a show of a defense and contented himself with watching the case and lying in wait for any legal objections that might offer themselves. He lay back on the seat occasionally taking a pinch of snuff in a manner intended to be contemptuous. Now and then elevating his eyebrows and sometimes exchanging a little note with Mr. Bridgenorth behind him. The attorney had far more interest in the case than the barrister to which he was perhaps excited by his poor old friend Joe Blague who had edged and wedged himself through the crowd close to Mr. Bridgenorth's salvo sent thither by Ben Sturges to whom he had been introduced by Charlie Jones and who had accounted for Mary's disappearance on the preceding day and spoken of their chase, their fears, their hopes. All this was told in a few words to Mr. Bridgenorth. So few that they gave him but a confused idea that time was of value and this he named to his counsel who now rose to speak for the defense. Joe Blague looked about for Mary. Now he had gained and given some idea of the position of things. At last he saw her standing by a decent looking woman looking flushed and anxious and moving her lips incessantly as if eagerly talking her eyes never resting on any object but wandering about as if in search of something. Joe thought it was for him she was seeking and he struggled to get round to her. When he had succeeded she took no notice of him although he spoke to her but still kept looking round and round in the same wild restless manner. He tried to hear the low quick mutterings of her voice as he caught the repetition of the same words over and over again. I must not go mad, I must not indeed. They say people tell the truth when they're mad but I don't. I was always a liar, I was indeed but I'm not mad. I must not go mad, I must not indeed. Suddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly Joe was listening with mournful attention to her words and turning sharp round upon him with a braiding for his eavesdropping on her lips she caught sight of something or someone who even in that state had power to arrest her attention and throwing up her arms with wild energy she shrieked aloud, oh Gem, Gem you're saved and I am mad and was instantly seized with convulsions. With much commissuration she was taking out of court while the attention of many was diverted from her by the fierce energy with which a sailor forced his way over rails and seats against turnkeys and policemen. The officers of the court opposed this forcible manner of entrance but they could hardly induce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining his object and tailing his tail in the witness box a legitimate place. For Will had dwelt so impatiently on the danger in which his absence would place his cousin that even yet he seemed to fear that he might see the prisoner carried off and hung before he could pour out the narrative which could exculpate him. As for Joe Blake his feelings were all but uncontrollable as you may judge by the indifference with which he saw Mary born stiffened convulsed out of the court in the charge of the kind Mrs. Church's who you will remember was an utter stranger to him. Shall keep? I'll not trouble myself about her. Said he to himself as he wrote with trembling hands a little note of the information to Mr. Bridgenorth who had conjectured when Will had first disturbed the awful tranquility of the life and death court that the witness had arrived better late than never on whose evidence rested all the slight chance yet remaining to Jim Wilson of escaping death. During the commotion in the court among all the cries and commands that dismay in their directions consequent upon Will's entrance and poor Mary's fearful attack of illness Mr. Bridgenorth had kept his lawyer like presence of mind and long before Joe Blake's almost eligible note was poked at him he had recapitulated the facts on which Will had to give evidence and the manner in which he had been pursued after his ship had taken her leave of the land. The barrister who defended Jim took new heart when he was put in possession of these striking points to be adduced not so much out of earnestness to save the prisoner of whose innocence he was still doubtful as because he saw the opportunities for the display of forensic eloquence which were presented by the facts. A gallon tar brought back from the pathless ocean by a girl's noble daring the dangers of too hastily judging from circumstantial evidence, et cetera, et cetera. While the counselor for the prosecution prepared himself by folding his arms elevating his eyebrows and putting his lips in the form in which they might best whistle down the wind such evidence as might be produced by a suborned witness who dared to perjure himself. For of course it is etiquette to suppose that such evidence as may be given against the opinion which lawyers are paid to uphold is anything but based on truth. And perjury, conspiracy, and peril of your immortal soul are light expressions to throw at the heads of those who may prove, not the speaker there would then be some excuse for the hasty words of personal anger but the hire of the speaker to be wrong are mistaken. But when once Will had attained his end and felt that his tale or part of a tale would be heard by judge and jury when once he saw Jem standing safe and well before him even though he saw him pale and careworn at the felons bar his courage took the shape of presence of mind and he awaited the examination with a calm and flinching intelligence which dictated the clearest and most pertinent answers. He told the story you know so well how his leave of absence being nearly expired he had resolved to fulfill his promise and go to see an uncle residing in the Isle of Man how his money sailor-like was all expended in Manchester and how consequently it had been necessary for him to walk to Liverpool which he had accordingly done on the very night of the murder accompanied as far as Holland's Green by his friend and cousin the prisoner at the bar. He was clear and distinct in every corroborative circumstance and gave a short account of the singular way in which he had been recalled from his outward bound voyage and the terrible anxiety he had felt as the pilot boat had struggled home against the wind. The jury felt that their opinion so nearly decided half an hour ago was shaken and disturbed in a very uncomfortable and perplexing way and were almost grateful to the council for the prosecution when he got up with a brow of thunder to demolish the evidence which was so bewildering when taken in connection with everything previously adduced. But if such without looking to the consequences was the first impulsive feeling of some among the jury how shall I describe the vehemence of passion which possessed the mind of poor Mr. Carson as he saw the effect of the young sailor's statement. It never shook his belief in Jim's guilt in the least that attempt at an alibi, his hatred, his longing for vengeance, having once defined an object to itself could no more bear to be frustrated and disappointed than the beast of prey can submit to have his victim taken from his hungry jaws. No more likeness to the calm stern power of Jupiter was there in that white eager face almost distorted by its fell anxiety of expression. The council to whom etiquette assigned the cross examination of will caught the look on Mr. Carson's face and in his desire to further the intense wish they're manifested he overshot his mark even in his first insulting question. And now my man you've told the court a very good and very convincing story. No reasonable man ought to doubt the unstained innocence of your relation at the bar. Still there is one circumstance you have forgotten to name and I feel that without it your evidence is rather incomplete. Will you have the kindness to inform the gentleman of the jury? What has been your charge for repeating this very plausible story? How much good coin of Her Majesty's realm have you received or are you to receive for walking up from the docks? Her sumless credible place and uttering the tale you have just now repeated very much to the credit of your instructor I must say. Remember sir you are upon oath. It took Will a minute to extract the meaning from the garb of unaccustomed words in which it was invested and during this time he looked a little confused. But the instant the truth flashed upon him he fixed his bright clear eyes flaming with ignition upon the counselor whose look fell at last before that stern and flinching gaze. Then and not till then Will made answer. Will you tell the judge and jury how much money you've been paid for your impudence towards one who has told God's blessed truth and who would scorn to tell a lie or black guard to anyone for the biggest fee has ever lawyer got for doing dirty work? Will you tell sir? But I'm ready my lord judge to take my oath as many times as your lordship or the jury would like to testify to things having happened just as I said. There's O'Brien the pilot in court now. Would somebody with a wig on please to ask him how much he can say for me? It was a good idea and caught out by the counsel for the defense. O'Brien gave it just such testimony as was required to clear Will from all suspicion. He had witnessed the pursuit he had heard the conversation which took place between the boat and the ship. He had given Will a homeward passage in his boat and the character of an accredited pilot appointed by the Trinity House was known to be above suspicion. Mr. Carson sank back on his seat and sickening despair. He knew enough of courts to be aware of the extreme unwillingness of juries to convict even where the evidence is most clear when the penalty of such conviction is death. At the period of the trial most condemnatory to the prisoner he had repeated this fact to himself in order to damp his two certain expectation for a conviction. Now it needed not repetition for it forced itself upon his consciousness and he seemed to know even before the jury retired to consult that by some trick, some negligence some miserable hocus-pocus the murderer of his child has darling his Absalom who had never rebelled. The slayer of his unburied boy would slip through the fangs of justice and walk free and unscathed over that earth where his son would never more be seen. It was even so. The prisoner hit his face once more to shield the expression of an emotion he could not control. From the notice of the over-curious Joe Blake seized his eager talking to Mr. Bridge North. Charlie looked grave and earnest. For the jury filed one by one back into their box and the question was asked to which such an awful answer might be given. The verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to themselves at last neither being convicted of his innocence nor yet quite willing to believe him guilty in the teeth of the alibi. But the punishment that awaited him if guilty was so terrible and so unnatural a sentence for man to pronounce on man that the knowledge of it had weighed down the scale and the sight of innocence and not guilty was the verdict that thrilled through the breathless court. One moment of silence and then the murmurs rose as the verdict was discussed by all with lowered voices. Jem stood motionless as head bowed. Poor fellow he was stunned with the rapid career of events during the last few hours. He had assumed his place at the bar with little or no expectation of an acquittal and with scarcely any desire for life in the complication of occurrences tending to strengthen the idea of Mary's more than indifference to him. She had loved another and in her mind Jem believed that he himself must be regarded as the murderer of him she loved. The wartless gloom which made life seem such a blank expanse of desolation there flashed the exquisite delight of hearing Mary's avowal of love making the future all glorious if a future in this world he might hope to have. He could not dwell on anything but her words telling of her passionate love all else was indistinct nor could he strive to make it otherwise she loved him. And life now full of tender images suddenly bright with all exquisite promises hung on a breath the slenderest gossamer chance he tried to think that the knowledge of her love would soothe him even in his dying hours but the phantoms of what life with her might be would obtrude and made him almost gasp and reel under the uncertainty he was enduring. Well's appearance had only added to the intensity of the suspense. The full meaning of the verdict would not at once penetrate his brain. He stood dizzy and motionless someone pulled his coat he turned and saw Joe Blake the tears stealing down his brown fur cheeks while he tried in vain to command voice enough to speak he kept shaking Jim by the hand as the best and necessary expression of his feeling Here make yourself scarce I should think you'd be glad to get out of that exclaimed the jailor as he brought up another livid prisoner from out whose eyes came the anxiety with which he would not allow any other feature to display Joe Blake pressed out of court and followed unreasoningly the crowd made way and kept their garments tied about them as Jim passed for about him there still hung the taint of the murderer He was in the open air and free once more although many looked on him with suspicion faithful friends closed round him his arm was unresistingly pumped up and down by his cousin and Job when one was tired the other took up the wholesome exercise while Ben Sturgis was working off working Charlie for walking on his head round and round Mary's sweetheart for a sweetheart he was now satisfactorily a certain to be in spite of her assertion to the contrary and all this time Jim himself felt bewildered and dazzled he would have given anything for an hour's uninterrupted thought on the occurrences of the past week and the new visions raised up during the morning I, even though that tranquil hour were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison cell the first question sobbed out by his choking voice oppressed with emotion was where is she they led him to the room where his mother sat they had told her of her son's acquittal and now she was laughing and crying and talking and giving way to all those feelings which she had restrained with such effort during the last few days they brought her son to her and she threw herself upon his neck weeping there he returned her embrace but looked round beyond accepting his mother there was no one in the room but the friends who had entered with him hey lad, she said when she found voice to speak see what it is to have behaved thyself I could put in a good word for thee and the jury could not go and hang thee in the face of the character I gave thee was not a good thing that they did not keep me from Liverpool but I would come I knew I could do thee good bless thee my lad but thou'd very white and all of a tremble he kissed her again and again but looking round as if searching for someone he could not find the first words he uttered were still where is she end of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 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 Recording by Leanne Howlett Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell Chapter 33 Rekwa Escott in Peace Fear no more the heat of the sun nor the furious winter's rages thou thy worldly task hast done homework gone and taken thy wages Symboline While day and night can bring delight or nature out of pleasure give while joys above my mind can move for thee and thee alone I live when that grim foe of joy below comes in between to make us part the iron hand that breaks our band it breaks my bliss it breaks my heart burns she was where no words of peace no soothing hopeful tidings could reach her in the ghastly spectral world of delirium hour after hour day after day she started up with passionate cries on her father to save Jim arose wildly imploring the winds and waves the pitiless winds and waves to have mercy and over and over again she exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonized entreaties and fell back powerless uttering only the wailing modes of despair they told her Jim was safe they brought him before her eyes but sight and hearing were no longer the channels of information to that poor distracted brain nor could human voice penetrate to her understanding Jim alone gathered the full meaning of some of her strange sentences and perceived that by some means or other she, like himself, had to bind the truth of her father being the murderer long ago reckoning time by events and thoughts and not by clock or dial plate Jim had felt certain that Mary's father was Harry Carson's murderer and although the motive was in some measure a mystery yet a whole train of circumstances the principle of which was that John Barton had borrowed the fatal gun only two days before had left no doubt in Jim's mind sometimes he thought that John had discovered and thus bloodily resented the attentions which Mr. Carson had paid to his daughter at others he believed the motive to exist in the bitter feuds between the masters and their work people in which Barton was so keen an interest but if he had felt himself pledged to preserve this secret even when his own life was a probable penalty and he believed he should fall executed by Mary as the guilty destroyer of her lover how much more was he bound now to labor to prevent any word of hers from inculpating her father now that she was his own now that she had braved so much to rescue him and now that her poor brain had lost over her words all that night long Jim wandered up and down the narrow precincts of Ben Sturgis's house in the little bedroom where Mrs. Sturgis alternately tended Mary and wept over the violence of her illness he listened to her ravings each sentence of which had its own peculiar meaning and reference intelligible to his mind till her words rose to the wild pitch of agony that no one could alleviate and he could bear it no longer as he was miserable downstairs where Ben Sturgis thought of his duty to snore away in an armchair instead of his bed under the idea that he should thus be more ready for active service such as fetching the doctor to revisit his patient before it was fairly light Jim, wide awake and listening with an earnest attention he could not deaden however painful its results proved heard a gentle subdued knock at the house door it was no business of his to be sure to open it Ben slept on he thought he would see who the early visitor might be and ascertain if there was any occasion for disturbing either host or hostess it was Joe Blee who stood there distinct against the outer light of the street how is she eh, poor soul, is that her no need to ask how strange her voice sounds screech, screech and she so low, sweet spoken when she's well thou must keep up heart, old boy and not look so dismal by self I can't help it, Job it's past a man's bearing to hear such a one as she is going on as she is doing even if I did not care for her it would cut me sore to see one so young and I can't speak of it, Job as a man should do said Jim, his sobs choking him let me in will you said Job, pushing past him for all this time Jim had stood holding the door I could admit, Job, where he might hear so much that would be suggestive to one acquainted with the parties that Mary named I had more than one reason for coming but times I wanted to hear how Yon poor Winch was that stood first late last night I got a letter from Margaret very anxious like the doctor says the old lady Yonder can't last many days longer and it seems so lonesome for her to die with no one but Margaret and Mrs. Davenport about her so I thought I'd just come to Mary Barton and see if she's well done to and you and your mother and Will go and take leave of old Alice Jim's countenance sad at best just now fell lower and lower but Job went on with his speech she still wander as Margaret says and thinks she's with her mother at home but for all that she should have some kith and kin near her to close her eyes to my thinking could not you and Will take mother home I'd follow when Jim faltered out thus far when Job interrupted lad if thou knew that thy mother has suffered for thee thou'd not speak of leaving her just when she's got thee from the grave as it were why this very night she roused me up and Job says she I ask your pardon for awakening you but tell me am I awake or dreaming is Jim proved innocent oh Job Lee God's sin I've not been only dreaming it for thou seest she can't rightly understand why thou art with Mary and not with her I I I know why but a mother only gives up her son's heart inch by inch to his wife and then she gives it up with a grudge no Jim thou must go with thy mother just now if ever thou hope is for God's blessing she's a widow and has none but thee never fear for Mary she's young and will struggle through they are decent people these folks she is with and I'll watch over her as though she was my own poor girl that lies cold enough in London town I grant ye it's hard enough for her to be left among strangers to my mind John Barton would be more in the way of his duty looking after his daughter than delegating it up and down the country looking after everyone's business but his own a new idea and a new fear came into Jim's mind what if Mary should implicate her father she raves terribly said he all night long she's been speaking of her father and mixing up thoughts of him with the trial she saw yesterday I should not wonder if she'll speak of him as being in court next thing I shouldn't of wonder either answered Job folk in her way say many and many a strange thing and the best way is never to mind them now you take your mother home Jim and stay by her till old Alice is gone and trust me for seeing after Mary Jim felt how right Job was and could not resist what he knew to be his duty but I cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he was as he stood at the door to take a last fond lingering look at Mary he saw her sitting up in bed her golden hair dimmed with her one day's illness floating behind her her head bound round with wedded cloths her features all agitated even to distortion with the pangs of her anxiety her lover's eyes filled with tears he could not hope the elasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by early sorrows and now especially the dark side of everything seemed to be presented to him what if she died just when he knew the treasure the untold treasure he possessed in her love what if worse than death she remained a poor gibbering maniac all her life long and mad people do live to be old sometimes even under all the pressure of their burden terror distracted as she was now and no one able to comfort her jim said joe partly guessing the others feelings by his own jim repeated he arresting his attention before he spoke jim turned round the little motion causing the tears to overflow and trickle down his cheeks thou must trust in god and leave her in his hands he spoke hushed and low but the words sank all the mourn to jim's heart and gave him strength to tear himself away he found his mother not withstanding that she had but just regained her child through mary's instrumentality half inclined to resent his having passed the night an anxious devotion to the poor invalid she dwelt on the duties of children to their parents above all others till jim could hardly believe the relative positions they had held only yesterday when she was struggling with and controlling every instinct of her nature only because he wished it however the recollection of that yesterday with its hairs breathed between him and a felon's death and the love that had lightened the dark shadow made him bear with the meekness and patience of a true hearted man all the worrying little acerbates of today and he had no small merit in doing so for in him as in his mother the reaction after intense excitement had produced its usual effect and increased irritability of the nervous system they found Alice alive and without pain and that was all a child of a few weeks old more bodily strength a child of a very few months old more consciousness of what was passing before her but even in this state she diffused an atmosphere of peace around her true will at first wept passionate tears at the sight of her who had been as a mother to him so standing on the confines of life but even now as always loud passionate feeling could not long endure in the calm of her presence the firm faith which her mind had no longer power to grasp had left its trail of glory for by no other word can I call the bright happy look which illumined the old earth-worn face her talk it is true bore no more than constant earnest reference to God and his holy word which it had done in health and there were no death bed words of exhortation from the lips of one so habitually pious for still she imagined herself once again in the happy realms of childhood and again dwelling in the lovely northern haunts where she had so often longed to be though earthly sight was gone away she beheld again the scenes she had loved from long years ago she saw them without a change to dim the old radiant hues the long dead were with her fresh and blooming as in those bygone days and death came to her as a welcome blessing like as evening comes to the weary child her work here was finished and faithfully done what better sentence can an emperor wish have said over his beer in second childhood that blessing clouded by a name she said her nunctimetus the sweetest canticle to the holy mother good night dear mother bless me once more I'm very tired and would feign go to sleep she never spoke again on this side heaven she died the day after their return from Liverpool from that time Jim became aware that his mother was gallously watching for some word or sign which should be token his wish to return to Mary and yet go to Liverpool he must and would as soon as the funeral was over if but for a simple glimpse of his darling for Job had never written indeed in a necessity for his so doing had never entered his head if Mary died he would announce it personally if she recovered he meant to bring her home with him writing was to him little more than an auxiliary to natural history reading specimens not of expressing thoughts the consequence of this want of intelligence as to Mary's state was that Jim was constantly anticipating that every person and every scrap of paper was to convey to him the news of her death he could not endure this state long but he resolved not to disturb the house by announcing to his mother his purposed intention of returning to Liverpool until the dead had been buried forth on Sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears as one who would not be comforted the old childish feeling came over him the feeling of loneliness at being left among strangers by and by Margaret timidly stole near him as if waiting to console and soon his passion sank down to grief and grief gave way to melancholy and though he felt as if he never could be joyful again he was all the while unconsciously approaching nearer to the full happiness of calling Margaret his own and a golden thread was interwoven now with the darkness of his sorrow yet it was on his arm that Jane Wilson lent on her return homewards Jim took charge of Margaret Margaret I'm bound for Liverpool by the first train tomorrow I must set your grandfather at Liberkey I'm sure he likes nothing better than watching over poor Mary he loves her nearly as well as me but let me go I've been so full of poor Alice I've never thought of it before I can't do so much as many a one but Mary will like to have a woman about her that she knows I'm sorry I waited to be reminded Jim replied Margaret with some little self-reproach but Margaret's proposition did not at all agree with her companion's wishes he found he had better speak out and put his intention at once to the right motive the subterfuge about setting Job Lee at Liberty had done him harm instead of good to tell truth Margaret it's I that must go that for my own sake not your grandfather's I can rest neither by night nor day for thinking on Mary whether she lives or dies I look on her as my wife before God as surely and solemnly as if we were married so being I have the greatest right to look after her and I cannot yield it even to her father said Margaret finishing his interrupted sentence it seems strange that a girl like her should be thrown on the bare world so bad an illness no one seems to know where John Barton is else I thought of getting Morris to write him a letter telling him about Mary I wish she was home that I do Jim could not echo this wish Mary's not bad off for friends where she is said he I call them friends though a week ago we none of us knew there were such folks in the world but being anxious and sorrowful about the same thing makes people friends quicker than anything I think she's like a mother to Mary in her ways and he bears a good character as far as I could learn just in that hurry we're drawing near home and I've not said my say Margaret I want you to look after mother a bit she'll not like my going and I've got to break it to her yet if she takes it very badly I'll come back tomorrow night but if she's not against it very much I mean to stay till it's settled about Mary one way or the other Will you know will be there Margaret doing for mother Will's being there made the only objection Margaret saw to this plan she disliked the idea of seeming to throw herself in his way and yet she did not like to say anything of this feeling to Jim who had all along seemed perfectly unconscious of any love affair besides his own in progress so Margaret gave a reluctant consent if you can just step up to our house tonight Jim I'll put up a few things as may be useful to Mary and then you can say when you'll likely be back if you come home tomorrow night and wills there perhaps I need not step up yes Margaret do I shan't leave easy unless you go sometime in the day to see mother I'll come tonight though and now goodbye stay do you think you could just coax poor Will to walk a bit home with you that I might speak to mother by myself no that Margaret could not do that was expecting too great a sacrifice of bashful feeling but the object was accomplished by wills going upstairs immediately on their return to the house to indulge his mournful thoughts alone as soon as Jim and his mother were left by themselves he began on the subject uppermost in his mind mother she put her handkerchief from her eyes and turned quickly round so as to face him where he stood thinking what best to say the little action annoyed him and he rushed it once into the subject I'm going back to Liverpool tomorrow morning to see how Mary Barton is and what's Mary Barton to thee that thou shouldst be running after her in that a way if she lives she shall be my wedded wife if she dies mother I can't speak of what I shall feel if she dies his voice was choked in his throat for an instant his mother was interested by his words and then came back the old jealousy of being supplanted in the affections of that son who had been as it were newly born to her by the escape he had so lately experienced from danger so she hardened her heart against entertaining any feeling of sympathy and turned away from the face which recalled the earnest look of his childhood when he had come to her in some trouble sure of help and comfort and coldly she spoke in those tones which Jim knew and dreaded even before the meaning they expressed was fully shaped thou art old enough to please thyself old mothers are cast aside in what was born forgotten as soon as a pretty face comes across I might have thought of that last Tuesday when I felt as if that were all my own and the judge were some wild animal trying to rend thee from me I spoke up for thee then but it's all forgotten now I suppose mother you know all this while you know I can never forget any kindness you've ever done for me and they've been many why should you think I've only room for me too as much as man ever loved woman he awaited a reply none was vouchsafed mother answer me said he at last what might I answer you asked me no question well I ask you this now tomorrow morning I go to Liverpool to see her who is as my wife dear mother will you bless me on my errand if it please God she recovers will you take her to you as you would a daughter she could neither refuse nor assent why need you go said she querulously at length you'll be getting in some mischief for another again can't you stop at home quiet with me Jim got up and walked about the room in despairing impatience she would not understand his feelings at last he stopped right before the place where she was sitting with an air of injured meekness on her face mother I often think what a good man father was I've often heard you tell of your courting days and of the accident that befell you and how ill you were how long is it ago near upon five and twenty years said she with a sigh you little thought when you were so ill you should live to have such a fine strapping son as I am did you now she smiled a little and looked up at him which was just what he wanted thou art not so fine a man as thy father was by a deal said she looking at him with much fondness not withstanding her depreciatory words he took another turn or two up and down the room he wanted to bend the subject round to his own case those were happy days when father was alive you may say so lad such days as will never come again to me at any rate she sighed sorrowfully mother said he at last stopping short and taking her hand in his with tender affection you'd like me to be as happy a man as my father was before me would not you you'd like me to have someone to make me as happy as you made father now would you not dear mother I did not make him as happy as I might have done murmured she in a low sad voice of self-approach the accident gave a jar to my temperance never got the better of and now he's gone where he can never know how I grieve for having frapped him as I did nay mother we don't know that we've seen him with gentle soothing anyhow you and father got along with as few rubs as most people but for his sake dear mother don't say me nay now that I come to you to ask your blessing before setting out to see her who is to be my wife if ever woman is for his sake if not for mine love her whom I shall bring home to be to me all you were to him and mother I do not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart than yours is in the long run after face though her eyes were still averted from Jim's gaze it was more because they were brimming over with tears called forth by his words than because any angry feeling yet remained and when his manly voice died away in low pleadings she lifted up her hands and bent down her son's head below the level of her own and then she solemnly uttered a blessing God bless thee Jim my own dear lad and may he bless Mary Barton for thy sake Jim's heart leapt up and from this time hope took the place of fear in his anticipations with regard to Mary mother you show your own true self to Mary and she'll love you as dearly as I do so with some few smiles and some few tears and much earnest talking the evening wore away I must be off to see Margaret why it's near ten o'clock could you have thought it now don't you stop up for me mother you and will go to bed for you've both need of it I shall be home in an hour Margaret had felt the evening long and lonely and was all but giving up the thoughts of Jim's coming that night when she heard his step at the door he told her of his progress with his mother he told her his hopes and was silent on the subject of his fears to think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together you'll date your start in life as Mary's acknowledged lover from poor Alice Wilson's burry all day well the dead are soon forgotten dear Margaret but you're worn out you're long evening waiting for me I don't wonder but never you nor anyone else think because God sees fit to call up new interests perhaps right out of the grave that therefore the dead are forgotten Margaret you yourself can remember our looks and fancy what we're like yes but what is that to do with remembering Alice why just this you're not always trying to think on our faces and making a labor of remembering but often I'll be bound when you're deep or when you're very quiet and still the faces you knew so well when you could see come smiling before you with loving looks or you remember them without striving after it and without thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them and so it is with them that are hidden from our sight if they've been worthy to be hardly loved while alive they'll not be forgotten when dead it's against nature and we need no more be upgrading ourselves for letting in God's rays of light upon our sorrow and no more be fearful of forgetting them because their memory is not always haunting and taking up our minds then you need to trouble yourself about remembering your grandfather's face or what the stars were like you can't forget if you would what it's such a pleasure to think about don't fear my forgetting Aunt Alice I'm not Jim, not now at least only you seemed so full about Mary I've kept it down so long remember how glad Aunt Alice would have been to know that I might hope to have her for my wife that's to say if God spares her she would not have known it even if you could have told her this last fortnight ever since she went away she's been thinking always that she was a little child at her mother's apron string she must have been a happy little thing it was such a pleasure to her to think about those early days when she lay old and gray on her deathbed I never knew anyone seemed more happy all her life long I and how gentle and easy her death was she thought her mother was near her they fell into calm thought above those last peaceful happy hours it struck eleven Jim started up I should have been gone long ago give me the bundle you'll not forget my mother good night Margaret she let him out and bolted the door behind him he stood on the steps to adjust some fastening about the bundle the court the street was deeply still long ago all had retired to rest on that quiet Sabbath evening the stars shone down on the silent deserted streets and the clear soft moonlight fell in bright masses leaving the steps on which Jim stood in shadow a footfall was hurt along the pavement slow and heavy was the sound before Jim had ended his little piece of business a form had glided into sight a wan feeble figure bearing with evident and painful labor a jug of water and a neighboring pump it went before Jim turned up the court at the corner of which he was standing passed into the broad calm light and there with bowed head sinking in shrunk body Jim recognized John Barton no haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in its involuntary motions and he who nevertheless went on with the same measured clockwork tread until the door of his own house was reached and then he disappeared and the latch fell and he too and made a faint and wavering sound breaking the solemn silence of the night then all again was still for a minute or two Jim stood motionless stunned by the thoughts which the sight of Mary's father had called up Margaret did not know he was at home had he stolen like a thief by dead of night into his own dwelling depressed as Jim had often in long seen him this night there was something different about him still beaten down by some inward storm he seemed to grovel along all self-respect lost and gone must he be told of Mary's state Jim felt he must not and this for many reasons he could not be informed of her illness without many other particulars being communicated at the same time of which it were better he should be kept in ignorance indeed of which Mary herself could alone give the full explanation no suspicion that he was the criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind of anyone added to these reasons was Jim's extreme unwillingness to face him with the belief in his breast that he and none other had done the fearful deed it was true that he was Mary's father and as such had every right to be told of all concerning her but supposing he were and that he followed the impulse so natural to a father and wished to go to her what might be the consequences among the mingled feelings she had revealed in her delirium I mingled even with the most tender expressions of love for her father was a sort of horror of him a dread of him as a bloodshedder which seemed to separate him into two persons one the father who had dantled her on his knee and loved her all her life long the other the assassin the cause of all her trouble and woe if he presented himself before her while this idea of his character was uppermost who might tell the consequence Jim could not and would not expose her to any such fearful chance and to tell the truth I believe he looked upon her as more his own to guard from all shadow of injury with most loving care than is belonging to anyone else in this world though Gert with the reverend name of father and guiltless of ought that might have lessen such reverence if you think this account of mine confused of the half feelings half reasons which passed through Jim's mind as he stood gazing on the empty space where that crushed form had so lately been seen if you are perplexed to disentangle the real motives I do assure you it was from just such an involved set of thoughts that Jim drew the resolution to act as if he had not seen that phantom like this of John Barton himself yet not himself End of Chapter 33 Recording by Leanne Howlett