Mary Barton Page #4

								


"That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They can earn so much
when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. My
Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. 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: my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I
loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I see
what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,
and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; 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.' 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.' She flushed up like a
turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when
she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), 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 lass well enough,
and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at the
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."

"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and
said you'd never speak to her again."

"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Barton,
testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off living
with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--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."

"Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson.

"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. She comes in, toward 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. 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.
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. One thing I do remember I did say, and
pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist, and--"

"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up into
as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's
stock than thine," interrupted Wilson.

"Well, well, I call her 'little,' because her mother's name is Mary.
But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and,
'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day
and made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to my
								Rate this book:
0.0 / 0 votes