Mary Barton Page #3

								

woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,
feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.

The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look
of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with
you?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther, yet?"
Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and
plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only
fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.

"Come, women," 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're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." 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 you're
neither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. Stay," he added, with
some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under
you, to save the gowns women always think so much of; 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."

   [Footnote 1: "Nesh;" Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.]

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

"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson.

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

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

"Ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,
with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work
in Manchester, has quite a different look with them to us Manchester
folk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy
cheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like
black), as my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women
for sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was
Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. 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, for you see she was so much older than
Esther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her."


   [Footnote 2: "Farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.]


"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.
								Rate this book:
0.0 / 0 votes