Mary Barton | Page 9

possessors could find no use-- such as triangular pieces of
glass to save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths.
However, it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and
glass, for she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of
satisfaction and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window
was the staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire)
led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such as washing
up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as larder, and
pantry, and storeroom, and all. The other door, which was considerably
lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting closet under the stairs;
from which, to the fire-place, there was a gay-coloured piece of
oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed with furniture (sure
sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the window was a dresser,
with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place was a table, which I
should call a Pembroke, only that it was made of deal, and I cannot tell
how far such a name may be applied to such humble material. On it,
resting against the wall, was a bright green japanned tea-tray, having a
couple of scarlet lovers embracing in the middle. The fire-light danced
merrily on this, and really (setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it
gave a richness of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some
measure propped up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A
round table on one branching leg, really for use, stood in the
corresponding corner to the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this,

with a washy, but clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form
some idea of John Barton's home.
The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry clatter of cups
and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their
out-of-door things, and sent Mary upstairs with them. Then came a
long whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs.
Wilson were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it
all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that, in their
turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they tried to be
busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs. Barton's
directions to Mary.
"Run, Mary, dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at
Tipping's (you may get one apiece, that will be fivepence), and see if he
has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of."
"Say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy," chimed in the husband.
"Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for
Wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of
home with it he'll like,--and Mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be off),
"you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind you get
it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, Mary."
"No, it's not all," said her husband. "Thou must get sixpennyworth of
rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'Grapes.' And thou just go to
Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner, under 14,
Barber Street" (this was addressed to his wife); "and tell her to come
and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother, I'll be bound, let
alone Jane and the twins."
"If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but
half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said Mrs. Barton.
"Pooh, pooh, Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely."
But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her
tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing anything
with Jem.
Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in the
fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in addition to
her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly occupations as a
washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of hedge and field
simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable occupation offered

itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and meadows as far as her
legs could carry her. This evening she had returned loaded with nettles,
and her first object was to light a candle and see to hang them up in
bunches in every available place in her cellar room. It was the
perfection of cleanliness; in one corner stood the modest-looking bed,
with a check curtain at the head, the whitewashed wall filling up the
place where the corresponding one should have been. The floor was
bricked, and scrupulously clean, although so damp that