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Chapter II - A Manchester tea-party
"Polly, put the kettle on,
And let's have tea!
Polly, put the kettle on,
And we'll all have tea."
"Here we are, wife; did'st thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth
hearty-voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves in
preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently
soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and
thoughts to her friend; and her approving look went far to second
her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from
Green Heys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house. The only faint
opposition was raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness of
the hour at which they would probably return, which she feared on
her babies' account.
"Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband
good-temperedly. "Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep
till long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can
tuck one lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for
t'other one, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we
are this far away from Ancoats."
"Or, I can lend you another shawl," suggested Mrs. Barton.
"Ay, anything rather than not stay."
The matter being decided the party proceeded home, through many
half-finished streets, all so like one another, that you might have
easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did
our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until
they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little
paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to the
opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off
household slops, washing suds, etc. The women who lived in the
court were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various
articles of linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low,
that if our friends had been a few minutes' sooner, they would have
had to stoop very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have
flapped in their faces: but although the evening seemed yet early
when they were in the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night,
with its mists and its darkness, had already begun to fall.
Many greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and
these women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court.
Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door,
exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, "Eh, look! Polly
Barton's getten* a sweetheart."
*"For he had geten him yet no benefice."
--Prologue to Canterbury Tales.
Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how
Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and
to his next speech she answered not a word.
Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on
entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total
darkness, except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or
might be, what it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large
piece of coal, which John Barton immediately applied himself to
break up, and the effect instantly produced was warm and glowing
light in every corner of the room. To add to this (although the
coarse yellow glare seemed lost in the ruddy glow from the fire),
Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by sticking it in the fire, and having
placed it satisfactorily in a tin candlestick, began to look further
about her, on hospitable thoughts intent. The room was tolerably
large, and possessed many conveniences. On the right of the door,
as you entered, was a longish window, with a broad ledge. On each
side of this, hung blue-and-white check curtains, which were now
drawn, to shut in the friends met to enjoy themselves. Two
geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood on the sill, formed a
further defence from out-door pryers. In the corner between the
window and the fireside was a cupboard, apparently full of plates
and dishes, cups and saucers, and some more nondescript articles,
for which one would have fancied their 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 it seemed as if the last
washing would never dry up. As the cellar window looked into an
area in the street, down which boys might throw stones, it was
protected by an outside shutter, and was oddly festooned with all
manner of hedge-row, ditch, and field plants, which we are
accustomed to call valueless, but which have a powerful effect
either for good or for evil, and are consequently much used among
the poor. The room was strewed, hung, and darkened with these
bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour in their process of
drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging shelf, made of
old planks, where some old hoards of Alice's were kept. Her little
bit of crockery-ware was ranged on the mantelpiece, where also stood
her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard contained at
the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of oatmeal, her
frying-pan, teapot, and a small tin saucepan, which served as a
kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes of broth
which Alice was sometimes able to manufacture for a sick neighbour.
After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to
light her fire with the damp coals, and half-green sticks, when Mary
knocked.
"Come in," said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the
door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to
come in.
"Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from the
candle streamed on the girl's face. "How you are grown since I used
to see you at my brother's! Come in, lass, come in."
"Please," said Mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come
to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is
with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you're to make haste, please!"
"I'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I'll
come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles
for spring drink? If she hasn't, I'll take her some."
"No, I don't think she has."
Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen, fond
of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the money-
spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business,
returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one
hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white,
smoke-flavoured, Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.
She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her
nettles, put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very
foot-sore manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort
did his house-place present, after her humble cellar! She did not
think of comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of
the fire, the bright light that revelled in every corner of the
room, the savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling
kettle, and the hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned
curtsey she shut the door, and replied with a loving heart to the
boisterous and surprised greeting of her brother.
And now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson
in the post of honour, the rocking-chair, on the right-hand side of
the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite
arm-chair, tried vainly to quiet the other with bread soaked in
milk.
Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do anything but sit at the
tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able to
superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious look at
Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very
comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem
stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly
to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being
a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not
so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen.
Barton vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only
drawback being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face
flushed and contracted as if in pain.
At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and
saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings
were hungry and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence;
holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she
said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains
never."
It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every
one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down
her food, and could not hide the fast-dropping tears. Alice could
have bitten her tongue out.
It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said
and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every
one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.
Barton, and a dislike to talk about anything else while her tears
fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife, and children
set off early home, not before (in spite of mal-a-propos speeches)
they had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place,
and not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and
declared that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would
have just such another evening.
"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice, and
going up to Mrs. Barton, she took her hand almost humbly, and said,
"You don't know how sorry I am I said it."
To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her eyes,
Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the self-
reproaching Alice. "You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as was
so foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where she
is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good-night, and never think no more
about it. God bless you, Alice."
Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after
life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words.
But just then all she could say was, "Good-night, Mary, and may God
bless YOU."
Content of Chapter II - A Manchester tea-party.
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Read next: Chapter III - John Barton's great trouble.
Read previous: Chapter I - A mysterious disappearance.
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