Mary Barton (Oxford World's Classics) by Elizabeth Gaskell

Author:Elizabeth Gaskell
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: OUP Oxford
Published: 2008-12-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XX

‘I saw where stark and cold he lay,

Beneath the gallows-tree,

And every one did point and say,,

“’Twas there he died for thee!”

* * * *

‘Oh! weeping heart! Oh! bleeding heart!

What boots thy pity now?

Bid from his eyes that shade depart,

That death-damp from his brow!’

‘THE BIRTLE TRAGEDY’

So there was no more peace in the house of sickness except to Alice, the dying Alice.

But Mary knew nothing of the afternoon’s occurrences; and gladly did she breathe in the fresh air, as she left Miss Simmonds’ house, to hasten to the Wilsons’. The very change, from the in-door to the out-door atmosphere, seemed to alter the current of her thoughts. She thought less of the dreadful subject which had so haunted her all day, she cared less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow-workwomen; the old association of comfort and sympathy received from Alice gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would soothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, unconscious, and absent though her spirit might be.

Then, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling of pleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she dreaded could never more beset her path, in the security with which she could pass each street corner—each shop, where he used to lie in ambush. Oh! beating heart! was there no other little thought of joy lurking within, to gladden the very air without? Was she not going to meet, to see, to hear Jem; and could they fail at last to understand each other’s loving hearts!

She softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. He was not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, stirring some little mess or other. Never mind! he would come soon: and with an unmixed desire to do her graceful duty to all belonging to him, she stepped lightly forwards, unheard by the old lady, who was partly occupied by the simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery; but more with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half-uttered murmurings.

Mary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and advancing, made Mrs. Wilson conscious of her presence, by saying,

‘Let me do that for you. I’m sure you mun be tired.’

Mrs. Wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed like those of a pent-up wild beast, as she recognised her visitor.

‘And is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after what has come to pass? Is it not enough to have robbed me of my boy with thy arts and thy profligacy, but thou must come here to crow over me—me—his mother? Dost thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with thy great blue eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin? Out upon thee with thy angel’s face, thou whited sepulchre!* Dost thou know where Jem is, all through thee?’

‘No!’ quivered out poor Mary, scarcely conscious that she spoke, so daunted, so terrified was she by the indignant mother’s greeting.

‘He’s lying in th’ New Bailey,’ slowly and distinctly spoke the mother, watching the effect of her words, as if believing in their infinite power to pain.

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