Mary Barton | Page 7

poor; I say, if
they don't know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we
can work; we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows, and yet
we are to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as
Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was
best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that had
no mirth in it.
"Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but what I
want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?"
"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,

kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her
'little'), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of manner,
so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on Wednesday
night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and presently Mrs.
Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to talk, we found
Esther told her she was coming back to live with us, and would pay her
week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday night she carried
off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her back, as I said before)
and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself about the big box, but
bring it when she had time. So, of course, she thought she should find
Esther with us; and when she told her story, my missis set up such a
screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary ran up with water for her
mother, and I thought so much about my wife, I did not seem to care at
all for Esther. But the next day I asked all the neighbours (both our own
and Bradshaw's) and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I
even went to a policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd
never spoken to before because of his livery, and I asks him if his
'cuteness could find anything out for us. So I believe he asks other
policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking
very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, toward
eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near Hulme Church, and
we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further. I'm sorry
enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way or another, but
I'm sorrier for my wife. She loved her next to me and Mary, and she's
never been the same body since poor Tom's death. However, let's go
back to them; your old woman may have done her good."
As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a
wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been.
"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street, and if
you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes to keep
your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's brother,
and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none more ready to
help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may have done a hard
day's wash, there's not a child ill within the street, but Alice goes to
offer to sit up, and does sit up, too, though may be she's to be at her
work by six next morning."
"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was Barton's

reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer, and
mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm at
work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See, there's
Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance, among a
group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass of thirteen or so,
who came bounding along to meet and to greet her father, in a manner
that showed that the stern-looking man had a tender nature within. The
two men had crossed the last stile, while Mary loitered behind to gather
some buds of the coming hawthorn, when an overgrown lad came past
her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming, "For old acquaintance sake,
Mary."
"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing rosy
red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The tones of
her voice called back her father and his friend, and the aggressor
proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by eighteen years of
his little brothers.