Mary Barton | Page 5

with tolerable faith that it would be granted. He was
accompanied by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have been
called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying,
and often hidden behind her apron. 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. She was far
advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering
and hysterical nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more
handsome and less sensible-looking than the man I have just described;
he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet
there was far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was
tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate,
fragile-looking 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 are 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* 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 on; 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."
*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 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."
"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on."
"Ay, she was a farrantly* lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,
with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work
here 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 grey 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 everything for her."
*Farrantly; comely, pleasant-looking.
"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.
"That's the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so much
when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. 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