 1. A mysterious disappearance. 2. Oh, tears hard, tears hard to be working, the whole of the lived long day, when all the neighbours about one, are off to their jaunts and play. 3. There's Richard, he carries his baby, and Mary takes little Jane, and lovingly they'll be wandering, through fields and briary lane. 4. Manchester song. 5. There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as Greenhays Fields, through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. 5. In spite of these fields being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood, the great and unusual recommendation of level tracks of land, there is a charm about them, which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common place but thoroughly rural fields. 6. With the busy, bustling manufacturing town, he left about half an hour ago. 7. Here and there, an old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. 8. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of hay-making, plowing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch, and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen a while to the delicious sounds of rural life. 9. The lowing of cattle, the milkmaids call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the farm yards. 10. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time, and you would not wonder if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular style that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded, hulking place. 11. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths, the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. 12. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm yard, belonging to one of those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. 13. The porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose tree, and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist shop within reach, 14. And the land to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance roses, lavender, sage, balm, fatigue, rosemary, pinks, and more flowers, onions, and jesmine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. 15. This farmhouse and garden are within a hundred yards of the style of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn, 16. And near this style, on the further side, there runs a tail the primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank. 17. I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in rite of nature, and a beautiful springtime by the workmen, 18. Afternoon, now ten or a dozen years ago, these fields were much thronged. 19. It was an early May evening, the April of the poets, the heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. 20. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into light, and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours. 21. Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. 22. They were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress at that particular class of maidens, namely a shawl which at midday or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, if the day was chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla, or scotch-plate, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down. 23. Their faces were not remarkable for beauty. Indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions. They had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but shallow complexions and irregular features. 24. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population. 25. There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with anyone, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit, or obstreperous compliments of the lads. 26. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whispering lovers or husband and wife, as the case might be, and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together. 27. Sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met, with friendly greeting, at the style so often named. One was the thorough specimen of a Manchester man, born of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living in manhood among the mills. 28. He was below the middle size, and slightly made. There was almost a stunted look about him, and his wane, colourless face, gave you the idea that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent upon bad times, and in provident habits. 29. His features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness, resolute either for good or evil, a sort of latent stern enthusiasm. 30. At the time of which I write, the good predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be granted. 31. He was accompanied by his wife, who, might without exaggeration, had been called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. 32. She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts, and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. 33. She was far advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. 34. The friend whom they met was more handsome, and less sensible looking than the man I have just described. 35. He seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. 36. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in her gait, bore another at the same age, little feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother. 37. The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look of sympathy dimmed his glade-some face. 38. Well, John, how goes it with you? And in a lower voice he added, any news of Esther yet. 39. Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins, seeming to call forth only fresh sobs from Mrs Barton. 40. Come, woman, said John Barton, you've both walked far enough. My Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks, and as for you, Mrs Wilson, you know you are but a cranky sort of a body at the best at times. 41. This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. Sit you down here, the grass is well nigh dry by this time, and neither of you nash folk about taking cold. Stay, he added, with some tenderness. 42. Here's my pocket handkerchief, to spread under you, to save the gown's women. Always think so much on. 43. And now, Mrs Wilson, give me the baby. I may as well carry him, while you talk and comfort my wife. Poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther. 44. Nesh Anglo Saxon, nesk tender. 45. These arrangements were soon completed. The two women sat down on the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands. 46. And the latter, each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk. But as soon as Barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an expression of gloom. 47. Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass. Ask Wilson. 48. No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with somebody. 49. My wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself. But I tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown themselves. 50. And Mrs Bradshaw, where she lodged, you know, says the last time she said eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came downstairs, dressed in her sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of thinking herself. 51. She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on. 52. Aye, she was, apparently, less. More's the pity now, added Barton, with a sigh. 53. You see them Buckinghamshire people, as comes to work here, has quite a different look with them, to us Manchester folk. 54. You'll not see among the Manchester winches such fresh rosy cheeks, or such black lashes to grey eyes, making them look like black, as my wife and Esther had. 55. I never see'd two such pretty women, for sisters, never. 56. Not but, what beauty is, a sad stare. Here was Esther, so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. 57. Her spirit was always up. If I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her, my wife spoiled her. It is true. 57. For you see, she was so much older than Esther. She was more like a mother to her, doing everything for her. 58. Apparently, comely, pleasant looking. 59. I wonder, she ever left you, observed his friend. 60. That's the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so much, when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. 51. My Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. 52. You see, Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face, and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my mind. 53. My Mrs. thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. 54. Says I, Esther, I see what you'll end up with your artificial, and your fly away veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds. 55. You'll be a street walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think, I'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister. 56. So says she, don't trouble yourself, John, I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me. 57. She flushed up like a turkey cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes, but when she saw Mary cry, the Mary can't abide words in her house. 58. She went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we talked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the last well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. 59. But she said, and at that time I thought there was sense in what she said, we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now and then. 60. Then you still were friendly. Folks said, you cast her off, and said you'd never speak to her again. 61. Folks always make one a deal worse than one is, said John Barton Testerly. 62. She came many a time to our house, after she left off living with us. 63. Last Sunday's the night, no, it was this very last Sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with Mary, and that was the last time we set eyes on her. 64. Was she any ways different in her manner, asked Wilson. 65. Well, I don't know, I have thought several times since, that she was a bit quieter, and more womanly like, more gentle, and more blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. 66. She comes in towards four o'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. 66. I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way. 66. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like a child that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially as Mary was fretting already. 66. One thing I do remember, I did say, and pretty sharply too, she took our little Mary by the waist, and they must leave off calling her little Mary. 66. She's growing up into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day, more at her mother's stock than nine, interrupted Wilson. 66. Well, well, I call her little because her mother name is Mary, but as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and Mary says she, 66. What should you think if I sent for you some day, and made a lady of you? 66. So I could not stand such talk as that to my girl, and I said, 66. Thou'd best not put that nonsense, I thy girl's head, I can tell thee. 66. I'd rather see her earning her bread by the sweat of brow, as the Bible tells her she should do. 66. I, though she never got butter to her bread, then be like a do nothing lady, worrying shopmen all morning, 66. and screeching at her piney all afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any one of God's creatures but herself. 66. Thou'd never could abide the gentle folk, said Wilson, half amused at his friend's vehemence. 66. And what good have they ever done me that I should like them, asked Barton, 66. The latent fire lighting up his eye, and bursting forth he continued, 66. If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies dying, as Paul Tomlay, with his white-waned lips, quivering, 66. for want of better food than I could give him, does the rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? 66. If I am out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes with black frost and keen east wind, 66. and there is no coal for the grape, and no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones as seen through the ragged clothes, 66. does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug. 66. When I lie on my deathbed, and Mary, bless her, stands fretting, as I know she will fret, and hear his voice faltered a little. 66. Will a rich lady come and take her to her own home, if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do? 66. No, I tell you it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things for the poor. 66. Don't think to come over me with the old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the poor. 66. I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. 66. Where they're slaves, as long as we can work, we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, 66. and yet we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds, 66. I, as separate as dives and Lazarus, with the great gulf betwixt us. 66. But I know who was best of then, and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle, that had no mirth in it. 66. Well, neighbour, said Wilson, all that may be very true, but what I want to know now is about Esther. 66. When did you last hear of her? 66. Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way, kissing both wife Mary and daughter Mary, 66. if I must not call her little, and shaking hands with me, but all in a cheerful sort of manner. 66. So we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes, but on Wednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son, 66. with Esther's box, and presently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key. 66. And when we began to talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us, 66. and would pay her weeks money for not giving notice. 66. And on Tuesday night she carried off a little bundle. 66. Her best clothes were on her back, as I said before, 66. and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box. 66. But bring it when she had time. 66. So, of course, she thought she should find Esther with us. 66. And when she told her story, my Mrs. set up such a screech and fell down in a dead swoon. 66. Mary ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much about my wife. 66. I did not seem to care at all for Esther. 66. But next day I asked all the neighbours, both our own and Bradshaw's, 66. and made none of them heard or seen nothing of her. 66. I even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of man, 66. but a fellow I'd never spoken to before because of his livery, 66. and I asked him if his cuteness could find anything out for us. 66. So I believe he asks other policemen. 66. And one of them had seen a wench, like our Esther, 66. walking very quickly with a bundle under her arm on Tuesday night, 66. toward 8 o'clock, and getting to a Hackney coach near Helm Church. 66. And we don't know the number, and can't trace it no further. 66. I'm sorry enough for the girl. 66. The bad come over her one way or another. 66. I'm sorry for my wife. 66. She loved her next to me and Mary, 66. and she's never been the same body since poor Tom's death. 66. However, let's go back to them. 66. Your old woman may have done her good. 66. As they walked homewards with a brisket pace, 66. Wilson expressed a wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been. 66. Still, our Alice lives in the cellar under number 14 in Barber Street. 66. And if you'd only speak the word, 66. she'd be with you in five minutes to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. 66. Though I'm Alice's brother and perhaps ought not to say it, 66. I will say there's none more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. 66. Though she may have done a hard day's wash, 66. there's not a child ill within the street 66. But Alice goes to offer to sit up and does sit up too. 66. Though maybe she's to be at her work by six next morning. 66. She's a poor woman and can feel for the poor Wilson, 66. was Barton's reply, and then he added, 66. Thank you kindly for your offer and may have I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife. 66. For while I'm at work and Mary's at school, 66. I know she frets about a bit. 66. See, there's Mary and the father's eye brightened, 66. As in the distance among a group of girls, 66. he spied his only daughter, a Bonnie Lass of 13 or so, 66. who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father 66. in a manner that showed that the stern-looking man 66. had attended nature within. 66. The two men had crossed the last aisle, 66. while Mary lauded behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, 66. when an overgrown lad came past her and snatched a kiss, 66. exclaiming, for older quaint and safe, Mary. 66. Take that for older quaint and safe, then, 66. said the girl, blushing rosy red, 66. more with anger than shame, 66. as she slapped his face. 66. The tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, 66. and the aggressor proved to be the older son of the latter, 66. the senior by 18 years of his little brothers. 66. Hear, children, instead of kissing and quarreling, 66. do you each take a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine, 66. they are heartily tired. 66. Mary sprung forward to take her father's charge, 66. with the girl's fondness for infants, 66. with some little foresight of the event soon to happen at home, 66. while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough, 66. cubish nature, as he crowed and cooed to his little brother. 66. Twins is a great trial to a poor man, 66. bless him, said the half-proud, half-weary father, 66. as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babe, 66. airy-parted with it. End of chapter one. Chapter two 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 two. A Manchester Tea Party. Polly put the kettle on and let's have tea. Polly put the kettle on and we'll all have tea. Here we are, wife. Didst thou think thou'd lost us? Quoth Hardy voiced Wilson as the two women rose and shook themselves in preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend. And her approving look went far to second her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from green haze fields to tea at the Barton's house. The only faint opposition was raised by Mrs. Wilson on account of the lateness of the hour at which they would probably return, which she feared on her baby's account. Now hold your tongue, Mrs. Will you, said her husband good temperately. Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till long past ten? And haven't you a shawl under which you can tuck one lad's head as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for to other one, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay. Now we are this far away from encodes. Or I can lend you another shawl, suggested Mrs. Barton. I, anything rather than not stay. The matter being decided, the party proceeded home through many half finished streets, also like one another, that you might have easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step however did our friends lose, down this entry, cutting off that corner, until they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off household slops, washing suds, etc. The women who lived in the court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low that if our friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop very much, or else the half wet clothes would have flapped in their faces. But although the evening seemed yet early when they were in the open fields, among the pent-up houses, night, with its mist and its darkness, had already begun to fall. Many greetings were given in exchange between the Wilson's and these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court. Two rude lads standing at a disorderly-looking house door exclaimed as Mary Barton, the daughter, passed. A. Look, Polly Barton's getting a sweetheart. For he had gotten him yet no benefits, prologued to Canterbury Tales. Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to his next speech she answered not a word. Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket, and on entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what it was, a red-hot fire smoldering under a large piece of coal, which John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner of the room. To add to this, although the coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire, Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further about her on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably large and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish window with a broad ledge. On each side of this hung blue and white checked curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends meant to enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a further defense from outdoor priors. In the corner between the window and the fire side was a cupboard, apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles for which one would have fancied their possessors could find no use, such as triangular pieces of glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying tablecloths. However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for she left her cupboard door open with a glance round of satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was a staircase, and two doors, one of which, the nearest to the fire, led into a sort of little back kitchen where dirty work such as washing up dishes might be done, and whose shelves served as larder and pantry and storeroom and all. The other door, which was considerably lower, opened into the coal hole, the slanting closet under the stairs, from which to the fireplace there was a gay colored piece of oil cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture, sure sign of good times among the mills. Beneath the window was a dresser with three deep drawers. Opposite the fireplace was a table, which I should call a pinbroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright green Japan tea tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire light danced merrily on this, and really, setting all taste but that of a child's aside, it gave a richness of coloring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped up by a crimson tea caddy, also of Japanware. A round table on one branching leg, ready for use, stood in the corresponding corner to the cupboard, and if you can picture all this with a washy but clean stencil pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John Barton's home. The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their out-of-door things and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a long whispering and chinking of money to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were too polite to attend, knowing, as they did full well, that it was all related to the preparations for hospitality, hospitality that in their turn they should have such pleasure in offering, so they tried to be busily occupied with the children and not to hear Mrs. Barton's directions to Mary. Run merry, dear, just round the corner and get some fresh eggs at tippings. You may get one apiece that will be five pints, and see if he has any nice ham cut that he would let us have a pound of. Say two pounds, Mrs., and don't be stingy, chimed in the husband. Well, a pound and a half, Mary, and get it Cumberland ham, for Wilson comes from there away, and it will have a sort of relish of hung with it he'll like. And merry, seeing the lass he feigned to be off, you must get a penny worth of milk and a loaf of bread. Mind you, get it fresh and new, and that's all, Mary. No, it's not all, said her husband. Thou must get six penny worth of rum to warm the tea. Thou'll get it at the grapes, and thou'll just go to Alice Wilson. He says she lives just right around the corner, under 14 Barber Street. This was addressed to his wife. And tell her to come and take her tea with us. She'll like to see her brother all be bound, let alone Jane and the twins. If she comes, she must bring a teacup and saucer, for we have but half a dozen, and here's six of us, said Mrs. Barton. Poo poo, Jim and Mary can drink out of one surely. But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her teacup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything with Jim. Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field samples, and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening, she had returned, loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was a perfection of cleanliness. In one corner stood the modest looking bed with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor was bricked and scrupulously clean, although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside shutter and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedgerow, ditch and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil and are consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odor in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf made of old planks where some old hordes of aliases were kept. Her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at the bottom coals and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her frying pan, teapot and a small tin saucepan, which served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth which Alice was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbor. After her walk she felt chilly and weary and was busy trying to light her fire with the damp coals and half-green sticks when Mary knocked. Come in said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the door for the night and hastened to make it possible for anyone to come in. Is that you, Mary Barton, exclaimed she, as the light from the candle streamed on the girl's face? How you were grown since I used to see you at my brother's. Come in, lass, come in. Please, said Mary, almost breathless, mother says you're to come to tea and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is with us and the twins and Jim, and you're to make haste, please. I'm sure it's very neighborly and kind in your mother, and I'll come with many thanks. Stay, Mary. Has your mother got any nettles for spring drink? If she hasn't, I'll take her some. No, I don't think she has. Mary ran off like a hare to fulfill what, to a girl of thirteen, fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand, the money-spending part. And well-enabley did she perform her business, returning home with a little bottle of rum and the eggs in one hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red and white smoke-flavored Cumberland ham wrapped up in paper. She was at home and frying ham before Alice had chosen her nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his house-place present after her humble cellar. She did not think of comparing, but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire, the bright light that reveled in every corner of the room, the savory smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsy, she shut the door and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother. And now, all preparations being made, the party sat down. Mrs. Wilson in the post of honor, the rocking chair, on the right-hand side of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite armchair, tried vainly to quiet the other with bread soaked in milk. Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the tea table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham with a very comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jim stood awkwardly, leaning against the dresser, replying rather roughly to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being a little boy, whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea table, his only drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and contracted as if in pain. At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence, holding her teacup with a manner of one proposing a toast, she said, Here's to absent friends, friends may meet, but mountains never. It was an unlucky toast or sentiment as she instantly felt. Everyone thought of Esther, the absent Esther, and Mrs. Barton put down her food and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could have bitten her tongue out. It was a wet blanket to the evening, for though all had been said or suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, everyone had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs. Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else while her tears fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and children, set off early home, not before, in spite of mal-proposed speeches, they had expressed a wish that such meanings might often take place, and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent, and declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again, they would have just such another evening. I will take care not to come and spoil it, thought poor Alice, and going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly and said, You don't know how sorry I am, I said it. To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes, Mary Barton put her arms around her neck and kissed the self-approaching Alice. You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was so foolish, only this work about Esther and not knowing where she is lies so heavy on my heart. Good night, and never think no more about it. God bless you, Alice. Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her afterlife, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words, but just then all she could say was, Good night, Mary, and may God bless you. Chapter 3 John Barton's Great Trouble Read by Wendy in Utah But when the morn came dim and sad and chill with early showers, her quiet eyelids closed. She had another morn than ours. In the middle of that same night, a neighbor of the Bartons was roused from her sound well-earned sleep by a knocking, which had at first made part of her dream, but starting up as soon as she became convinced of its reality, she opened the window and asked who was there. Me, John Barton, answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation. My Mrs. is in labor, and for the love of God, step in while I run for the doctor, for she is fearful bad. While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still open, she heard the cries of agony which resounded in the little court in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was standing by Mrs. Barton's bedside, relieving the terrified Mary, who went about where she was told like an automaton. Her eyes tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness. The cries grew worse. The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made this sudden call upon his services. And then he begged Barton just to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped, with impatience outside the doctor's door before he came down, and walked so fast homewards that the medical man several times asked him to go slower. Is she so very bad, asked he. Worse, much worse her than I ever saw her before, replied John. No. She was not. She was at peace. The cries were still for ever. John had no time for listening. He opened the latch door, stayed not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion up the stairs so well known to himself. But in two minutes was in the room where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved, with all the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by fire-light, and met the awestruck look of the neighbour, which at once told him the state of things. The room was still as he, with habitual tiptoe step, approached the poor frail body that nothing now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the clothes which were almost crammed into her mouth, to keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied. The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching Barton said, You must go downstairs. This is a great shock, but bear it like a man. Go down. He went mechanically, and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might only be a trance, a fit. He did not well know what. But not death. Oh, not death. And he was starting up to go upstairs again when the doctor's heavy, cautious, creaking footstep was heard on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above. Nothing could have saved her. There has been some shock to the system, and so he went on, but to unheating ears which yet retained his words to ponder on. Words not for immediate use in conveying sense, but to be laid by in the storehouse of memory for a more convenient season. The doctor, seeing the state of the case, grieved for the man, and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and accordingly wished him good night. But there was no answer. So he let himself out. And Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone so rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what they meant. He heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her clothes pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down and blunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted and why she wanted them. But he did not speak nor offer to help. At last she went with some kindly meant words, a text of comfort which fell upon a deafened ear, and something about Mary. But which Mary in his bewildered state he could not tell? He tried to realise it, to think it possible, and then his mind wandered off to other days, too far different times. He thought of their courtship, of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she was apprenticed, of his first gift to her, a bead necklace which had long ago been put by in one of the deep drawers of the dresser to be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange curiosity he got up to feel for it, for the fire by this time was well nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on the piled-up teethings which at his desire she had left unwashed till morning. They were all so tired. He was reminded of one of those daily little actions which acquire such power when they have been performed for the last time by one we love. He began to think over his wife's daily round of duties, and something in the remembrance that these would never more be done by her touched the source of tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead, and when she was kissed and spoken too soothingly, tears stole quietly down her cheeks. But she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber door softly, after the neighbour was gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated over and over again the same words, the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. Oh mother, mother, are you really dead? Oh mother, mother! At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She looked on the face so changed and yet so strangely like. She bent down to kiss it. The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shutter to her heart, and hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle and opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief, and quickly, quietly stealing down the steps, she knelt by him and kissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified cries, which she could not repress, rose upon his ear, he checked himself. Child, we must be all to one another. Now she is gone, whispered he. Oh father, what can I do for you? Do tell me, I'll do anything. I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill. That's the first thing I ask. Thou must leave me and go to bed now, like a good girl is thou art. Leave you, father, oh, don't say so. I'll bet thou must. Thou must go to bed and try and sleep. Thou wilt have enough to do and to bear poor wench to-morrow. Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to the little closet where she slept. She thought it was of no use undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself on her bed in her clothes. And before ten minutes had passed away, the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep. Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance both from his stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night would leave them short of money if he long remained away from the mill. He was in a club so that money was provided for the burial. These things settled in his own mind. He recalled the doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings toward Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct had wrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged with wonder and pity. But now he hardened his heart against her, for ever. One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities of the earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbors all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate, but never to marry. Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he humored Mary with tender love. She had more of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the necessity of the case, for of course all the money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit to choose her own associates and her own times for seeing them. With all this Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters which now began to occupy him heart and soul. She was aware that he had joined clubs and become an active member of the trades union, but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age, even when two or three years had elapsed since her mother's death, should care much for the differences between employers and the employed, an eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which however it may be lulled for a time is sure to break forth again with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its apparent quiet the ashes had still smoldered in the breasts of a few. Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to house each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children through the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed, etc. And when he knows trade is bad and could understand at least partially that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for more, when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their share, he is I say bewildered, and to use his own word, aggravated, to see that all goes on just as usual with the mill owners. Large houses are still occupied, while spinners and weavers' cottages stand empty because the families that once filled them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, and the shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers while the workmen loiter away his unemployed time in watching these things and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times? I know that this is not really the case, and I know what is the truth in such matters, but what I wish to impress is what the workmen feels and thinks. True that with childlike improvidence good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and foresight. But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured wrongs without complaining, without ever forgetting or forgiving those whom they believe have caused all this woe. Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered. His mother had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself was a good, steady workman, and as such pretty certain of steady employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence—you may also call it improvidence—of one who was willing and believed himself able to supply all his wants by his own exertions, and when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill were turned back one Tuesday morning with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped. Barton had only a few shillings to rely on. But he had good heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning home he spent some hours in going from factory to factory asking for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade. Some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this time that his little son, the apple of his eye, the sinusure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Everything, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the little fellow's strength in the prostration in which the fever had left him. Mocking words, when the commonest food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit, but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have stolen, but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where all edible luxuries are displayed, haunches of venison, stillton cheeses, molds of jelly, all appetizing sights to the common passer-by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter. She crossed to her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away. And Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart to see his only boy, a corpse. You can't fancy now the hordes of vengeance in his heart against the employers, for there are never wanting those who either in speech or in print find it in their interest to cherish such feelings in the working classes, who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power at their command, and who use their knowledge with unrelenting purpose to either party. So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day and growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades union meeting, a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a delegate himself, a chartist, and ready to do anything for his order. But now times were good, and all these feelings were theoretical, not practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to a dressmaker, for he had never left off disliking a factory life for a girl on more accounts than one. Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the question, there were two things open, going out to service, and the dressmaking business, and against the first of these Mary set herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot tell. But he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light of his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with his ideas and feelings toward the higher classes, he considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery, a pampering of artificial wants on the one side, and giving up of every rite of leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth it is for you to judge. I am afraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years of independence of action, since her mother's death such a time had now elapsed, had little inclined her to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbor, and working night and day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, the mysterious contestor, had an unacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew she was very pretty. The factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their freedom told the truth whatever it might be to every passerby, had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarks had fallen on an unheating ear, there were always young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is pretty. Concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this consciousness, she had early determined that her beauty should make her a lady, the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse. The rank to which she firmly believed her lost contestor had arrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as his servant by all who visited at her master's house. A dressmaker's apprentice must, or so Mary thought, be always dressed with a certain regard to appearances. Must never soil her hands, need never redden, or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so truly, what folly Mary felt or thought injures her without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of age in every class and under all circumstances. The end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be a dressmaker, and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply at all the first establishments to know on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a workwoman's situation. But high premiums were asked at all, poor man. He might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain the fact. He would have been indignant indeed had he known that if Mary had accompanied him the case might have been rather different as her beauty would have made her desirable as a showwoman. Then he tried second rate places. Had all the payment of a sum of money was necessary and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he went home at night, declaring it was time lost. That dressmaking was at all events a troublesome business and not worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the next day she set out herself as her father could not afford to lose another day's work. And before night, as yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas she had engaged herself as apprentice, so-called, though there were no deeds or indentures to the bond, to a certain Miss Simmons, a milliner and dressmaker in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground, enclosed in a bird's eye maple frame and stuck in the front parlor window where the work women were called her young ladies and where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration on consideration of being taught the business and where afterwards she was to dine and have tea with a small quarterly salary paid quarterly because so much more genteel than by the week. A very small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she was to be there by six bringing her day's meals during the first two years. In winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of work Miss Simmons had to do. And Mary was satisfied and seeing this her father was contented too although his words were grumbling and morose but Mary knew his ways and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily that both went to bed with easy if not happy hearts. End of chapter For more information or to volunteer visit LibriVox.org Chapter 4 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 Kim Sr. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Clayhorn Gaskell 4. Old Ellis's History To envy note between the ample sky To mourn no evil deed no hour misspent Like a living violet Silently return in suites to heaven what goodness lent Then bend between the chastening shower content Elliot Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have swept away all trays of poor Mary Barton but her husband still thought of her although with a calm and quiet grief in the silent watches of the night and Mary would start from her hard-earned sleep and think in her half dreamy, half awakened state she saw her mother stand by her bedside as she used to do in the days of long ago with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable tenderness while she looked on her sweeping child but Mary rubbed her eyes and sank back on her pillow awake and knowing it was a dream and still in all her troubles and perplexities her heart called on her mother for aid and she thought if mother had but lived she would have helped me forgetting that the woman's sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's even by the mighty power of a mother's love and unconscious of the fact that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned and Esther was still mysteriously absent and people had grown weary of wondering and begun to forget Barton still attended his club and was an active member of the trades union indeed more frequently than ever since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so uncertain and as she occasionally in very busy times remained all night his chiefest friend was still George Wilson although he had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind but their hearts were bound by old ties to one another and the remembrance of former things gave an unspoken charm to their meetings our old friend Jim Wilson had shot up into the powerful well-made young man with a sensible face enough nay, a face that might have been handsome had it not been here and there marked by the smallpox he worked with one of the great firms of engineers who send from out their towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the Tsar and the Sultan his father and mother were never weary of praising Jim at all which commendation had been clearly enough that they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make and to favor his love about which he never dared to speak whatever eyes and looks revealed one day in the early winter time when people were provided with warm substantial gowns not likely soon to wear out and when accordingly business with rather slack at Miss Simmons Mary met Alice Wilson coming home from her half-days work and indeed Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl the daughter of her who's forgiving kiss had comfort her in many sleepless hours so there was a warm greeting between the tidy old woman and the blooming young work girl and then Alice ventured to ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening you'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman like me but there's a tidy young lass Mary she's granddaughter to old job lay a spinner and a good girl she is do come Mary of a terrible wish to make you known to each other she's a gentile looking glass too at the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew but Alice was too delicate minded to plan a meeting even for her dear gem when one would have been an unwilling party and Mary relieved from her apprehension and she agreed to come how busy Alice felt it was not often she had anyone to tea and now her sense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her she made haste home and lighted the unwilling fire borrowing a pair of bellows to make it burn the faster for herself she was always patient she let the coals take their time then she put on her patents and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court she made a cup of odd sauce if she had plenty serving as plates went occasion required half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages but this was an unusual occasion in general she used herb tea for herself when at home unless some thoughtful mistress made a present of tea leaves from her more abundant household the two chairs drawn out for visitors and Julie swept and dusted an old board of old candle boxes set on end rather rickety to be sure but she knew the seat of old and went to sit lightly indeed the whole affair was more for a parent dignity of position than for any real ease a little, very little round table put just before the fire which by this time was blazing merrily her an lacquered ancient third hand tea tray arranged with a black teapot two cups with a red and white pattern and one with the old friendly willow pattern and saucers not to match on one of the extra supply the lump of butter flourished away all these preparations complete Alice began to look about her with satisfaction and with a sense of wonder what more could be done to add to the comfort of the evening she took one of the chairs away from its appropriate place by the table and putting it close to the broad large hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her cellar dwelling and mounting on it she pulled towards her an old deal box and then sequantity of the oat bread of the north the clapped bread of Cumberland and Miss Mordland and descending carefully with thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her hand she placed them on the bare table with the belief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her childhood she brought out a good piece of a four pound loaf of common household bread as well and that set down to rest really to rest and not to pretend on one of the brush-bottom chairs the candle was ready to be lighted the kettle boiled the tea was awaiting its doom and its paver parcel all was ready the knock at the door it was Margaret the young work women who lived in the worms above who having heard the bustle and the subsequent quiet began to think it was time to pay her visit below her dress was humble and very simple consisting of some kind of dark stuffed gown her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large handkerchief pinned down behind and at the sides in front the old woman gave her a hearty greeting and made her sit down on the chair she had just left while she balanced herself on the board seat in order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent choice to sit there I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton she's quite grand with her late hours at Alice as Mary still delayed the truth was Mary was dressing herself yes to come to poor old Alice's she thought it worthwhile to consider what gown she should put on it was not for Alice however you may be pretty sure no they knew each other too well but Mary liked to make an impression and in this it must be owned she was a pretty often gratified and there was this strange girl to consider just now so she put on her pretty new blue marino made tight to her throat her little linen collar and linen cuffs and salid forth to impress poor gentle Margaret she certainly succeeded Alice who never thought much about beauty had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was and as she came in half blushing at her own self consciousness Margaret could hardly take her eyes off her and put down her long black lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken such pains to secure can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the tea to pour it out and sweeten it to their liking to help and help again to clap bread and bread and butter can you fancy the delight with which she watched her piled up clap bread disappear before the hungry girls and listen to the praises of the hungry person bless her she knew how good such things taste when far away from home not but what everyone likes it when I was in service my fellow servants were always glad to share with me A. it's a long time ago Jan do tell us about it Alice said Margaret why last there's nothing to tell there was more mouths at home than could be fed Tom that's Will's father in Manchester and sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had both for lads and lasses so father sent George first you know George well enough Mary and then work was scarce out toward Burton where we lived and father said I'm on try and get a place and George wrote as how wages were far higher in Manchester than Millenthorpe or Lancaster and lasses I was young and thoughtless and thought it was a fine thing for my mother for George to say he'd heard on a place and I was all a gog to go and father was pleased like but mother said little and that little was very quiet I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see me so ready to go God forgive me but she packed up my clothes and some of the better end of her ownness would fit me and yon little paper box up there it's good for now but I would leave her live for she had it when she was a girl and brought all her coals in it to fathers when they were married but as I was saying she did not cry though the tears was often in her eyes and I seen her looking after me down the lane as long as I were in sight with her hand shading her eyes and that were the last look I ever had on her Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother and besides the griefs and bitter woes of youth were so old but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught her sadness and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and gone so many years ago did you never see her again Alice did you never go home while she was alive asked Mary no, nor since many a time and off have I planned to go I plan it yet and hope to go home again but first one thing came and then another first Mrs. Children fell ill of the measles and just when the week I'd asked for came and then I couldn't leave them for one and all cried for me to nurse them then Mrs. herself fell sick and I could go less than ever for you see they kept a little shop and he drank and Mrs. and me was all there was to mind children and shop and all and cook and wash besides Mary was glad she had not gone into service and said so Alice thou little knows the pleasure of helping others I was as happy there as could be almost as happy as I was at home well but next year I thought I could go at a leisure time and Mrs. told me I should have a fortnight then and I used to sit up all that winter working hard at Patchwork to have a quilt of my own making to take to my mother but master died and this went away from Manchester and I'd to look out for a place again well but interrupted Mary I should have thought that that was the best time to go home no I thought not you see it was a different thing going home for a week on a visit maybe with money in my pocket to give father a lift to going home to be a burden to him besides how could I hear of a place there anyways I thought it best to stay though perhaps it might have been better to a gone for then I should have seen mother again and the poor old woman looked puzzled I'm sure you did what you thought right said Margaret gently I last that's it said Alice raising her head and speaking more cheerfully that's the thing and then let the Lord send what he sees fit not but that I grieved soar oh soar and sad when towards spring next year when my quilt were all done to the lining George came in one evening to tell me my mother was dead I cried many a night at after I had no time for crying by day for that missus was terrible strict she would not hearken to my going to the funeral and indeed I would have been too late for George set off that very night by the coach and the letter had been kept her summit posts were not like the posts nowadays and he found the burial all over and father talking of flitting for he couldn't have by the cottage after mother was gone asterisk come to me to rel soon at after supper Shakespeare Richard the third wasn't it pretty place asked Mary pretty lass I never seen such a bonny bit anywhere you see there are hills there to go up into the skies not near maybe but that makes them all the bonnier I used to think they were golden hills of heaven about which mother sang when I was a child yawn are the golden hills of heaven where you shall never win something about a ship and a lover that may have been a lover that ballad was well near our cottage was rocks you don't know what rocks are in Manchester grey pieces of stone as large as a house all covered over with mosses of different colours some yellow some brown and the ground beneath them knee deep in purple heather smelling say sweet and fragrant and the low music of the humming bee forever sounding among it mother used to send Sally and me out to gather Ling and Heather for Beesams and it was such pleasant work we used to come home at evening loaded so as you could not see us for all that it was so light to carry and then mother would make us sit down under the old Hawthorne tree where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above the ground to pick and tie up the heather it seems all like yesterday and yet it's a long long time gone poor sister Sally has been in her grave this forty year and more but I often wonder if the Hawthorne is standing yet and if the lass is still go to gather Heather as we did many and many a year past and gone I sicken at heart to see the old spot once more maybe next summer I may set off if God spares me to see next summer why have you never been in all these many years asked Mary why lass first one wanted me and then another and I couldn't go without money either and I got very poor at times Tom was a scapegrace poor fellow with the help of one kind or another and his wife for I think scapegraces are always married long before steady folk was but a helpless kind of body she were always ailing and he were always in trouble so I had enough to do with my hands and my money too for that matter they died within twelve months of each other leaving one lad they had had seven but the Lord had taken six to his self Will as I was telling you on and I took him myself to take a bit of a home place for him and a fine lad he was the very spit of his father is to looks only steadier for he was steady although not would serve him but going to see I tried all I could to set him against the sailors life says I folks is as sick as dogs all the time there at sea your own mother told me for she came from foreign parts being a manx woman all the way to run corn by the Duke's canal but he might know what the sea were and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet with vomiting but the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships and came back more set than ever on being a sailor and he said is how he had never been sick at all and thought he could stand the sea pretty well so I told him he might do as he liked and he thanked me and kissed me for all that I was very frabbit with him and now he's gone to South America at the other side of the sun they tell me asterisk frabbit peevish Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's geography but Margaret looked so quiet and demure that Mary was in doubt if she were not really ignorant not that Mary's knowledge was very profound but she had seen a terrestrial globe a new where to find France and the continents on a map after this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie and the girls respecting her thoughts which they suspected had wandered to the home and scenes of her childhood were silent all at once she recalled her duties as a hostess and by an effort brought back her mind to the present time Margaret you must let Mary hear thee sing I don't know about fine music myself but folks say Margaret is a rare singer and I know she can make me cry at any time but if you sing that Margaret there's a good laugh with a faint smile as if amused at Alice's choice of a song Margaret began do you know the old hemweaver not unless you are Lancashire born and bred for it is a complete Lancashire ditty I will copy it for you the old hemweaver won I'm an old cotton weaver as Mania won knows I've note for to yeet my clothes you'd hardly give tuppence for always I've won my clogs are both Boston and stockings I've none you'd think it were hard to be brought into the world to be climbed and to do the best as you can old Dicky you and Billy's can telling me long we'd say had better times if I'd but hold my tongue I've hold in my tongue till I've near stop my breath I think I my heart I soon claim to death old Dicky's will crammed he's never were climbed and he never picked our in his life we tort on six week thinking each day were the last we shifted and shifted till now were quite fast we lived upon nettles while nettles were good and waterloo porridge the best of our food I'm telling you true we're livin' no better nor me old Billy a dance at the Bailey's one day for a shop that I owed him as I could not pay but he were too lat for old Billy a the bent had sewed the titan cart and tamed goods for the rent we'd note left for the old stool that were seats for two and on it cowered Margaret and me the boy is a mouse when they see this all the goods were taken out of the house says one chap to the tether all's gone thou may see says oy near Fretman you're welcome to me they made no more ado but whooped up the old stool and we both lit whack upon the flags then I said to a Margaret as we lay ponded floor well I'm sure they meant for I think in my heart we're both at the far end for me we have none nor loons to weave on ye dad there is good lost as found our Margaret the cares had who closed to put on who'd go up to London and talk to the great man and if things were not uttered when there who had been who's fully resolved to what both an end who's note to say again the king but who likes a fair thing and who says who can tell when who's hurt asterisk Clem to starve with hunger quote hard is the choice when the valiant must eat their arms or a Clem and quote Ben Johnson Clem to pick or means to throw the shuttle in hand loom weaving and groaning recitative depending much on expression and feeling to read it may perhaps seen humorous but it is that humor which is near akin to pathos and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is a powerfully pathetic song Margaret had both witnessed the destitution and had the heart to feel it and with all her voice was of that rich and rare order appears but Margaret with fixed eye and earnest dreamy look seem to have become more and more absorbed in realizing to herself the woe she had been describing and which she felt might at that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative comfort suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress unwilling to lose a note it was so clear so perfect so imploring a far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge with which the poor depressed looking young needle woman used her superb and flexile voice Deborah Travis herself once an old factory girl and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Gnevitt and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes Alice thanked the songstress who resumed her calm to mere manner much to Mary's wonder for she looked at her un-wariedly as if surprised that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward appearance quiet enough to hear a fine though rather quavering male voice going over again one or two strains of Margaret's song that's grandfather exclaimed she I must be going home until past nine while I'll not say nay for I have to be up by four for a very heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's but I shall be terrible glad to see you again at any time Lasses and I hope you'll take to one another as the girls ran up the cellar steps together Margaret said just step in and see grandfather I should like him to see you and Mary consented end of chapter four