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Chapter X - Return of the prodigal
"My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."
--ELLIOTT.
"Then guard and shield her innocence,
Let her not fall like me;
'T were better, oh! a thousand times,
She in her grave should be."
--The Outcast.
Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through
the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,
foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of
sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere
repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our
forefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the
weariest day draws to an end," etc., seemed false and vain sayings,
so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper
and deeper still sank the poor. It showed how much lingering
suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died
during those times. But remember! we only miss those who do men's
work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children,
when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many
hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill
up. Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill
the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does NOT take
much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who
thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken
bodies.
The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to
bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to
its weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but this
chastised them with scorpions.
Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before
he had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working
short time. But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the
interference of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now,
when he asked leave to resume his work, he was told they were
diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware,
by the remarks of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a
leading member of a Trades' Union, was not likely to be favoured in
his search after employment. Still he tried to keep up a brave
heart concerning himself. He knew he could bear hunger; for that
power of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child,
and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her
children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie,
that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more," in order to
imitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail of the
younger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at Miss
Simmonds'; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling the
effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices,
setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own
meal till work was done for the night, however late that might be.
But the rent! It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary's
earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now came
the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil
to come.)--The agricultural labourer generally has strong local
attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among
the inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton
formed one. He had removed to his present house just after the last
bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had then
thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife
something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of
the proceeding than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of
calling her forth to action again. So he seemed to know every
brass-headed nail driven up for her convenience. Only one had been
displaced. It was Esther's bonnet nail, which in his deep
revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had torn
out of the wall, and cast into the street. It would be hard work to
leave the house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in
the happy days of old. But he was a law unto himself, though
sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the
rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and tell
Mary they must flit. Poor Mary! she loved the house, too. It was
wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it would be long
before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about another
place.
This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the very
Monday when Barton planned to give him notice of his intention to
leave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make
Barton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer.
But by degrees the house was stripped of all its little ornaments.
Some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences, wanted to
pay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity
of food. And by-and-bye Mary began to part with other superfluities
at the pawn-shop. The smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and
carefully kept, went for bread for her father. He did not ask for
it, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal
look. Then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they
could spare them; and their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied
would last till better times came. But it was soon all gone; and
then she looked around the room to crib it of its few remaining
ornaments. To all these proceedings her father said never a word.
If he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article) on an
unusual meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullen
indifference, which depressed Mary's heart. She often wished he
would apply for relief from the Guardians' relieving office; often
wondered the Trades' Union did nothing for him. Once, when she
asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day's
fasting, over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he
turned round, with grim wrath, and said, "I don't want money, child!
D--n their charity and their money! I want work, and it is my
right. I want work."
He would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear it, but
not meekly; that was too much to expect. Real meekness of character
is called out by experience of kindness. And few had been kind to
him. Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the
assistance his Trades' Union would have given him. It had not much
to give, but, with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate
an active, useful member, than to help those who were more
unenergetic, though they had large families to provide for. Not so
thought John Barton. With him, need was right.
"Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said. "He's more claim on it than
me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children."
Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a back-
biting enemy of John Barton's. And he knew it; but he was not to be
influenced by that in a matter like this.
Mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now
missed by the other girls. Her mind wandered over the present
distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the
future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of
ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover
with whom she was to share them. Still she was not insensible to
the pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station;
not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so
many admired, had often said he would give anything for one of her
sweet smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity;
but it looked very real and very bright. Sally Leadbitter,
meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found out
that Mary had begun to affix a stern value to money as the
"Purchaser of Life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured by
gold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist in
Mary's heart. So she urged young Mr. Carson, by representations of
the want she was sure surrounded Mary, to bring matters more to a
point. But he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting Mary's
pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the
distress that many must be enduring. He felt that for the present
he must still be content with stolen meetings and summer evening
strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into her
ear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her look
radiant with beauty. No; he would be cautious in order to be
certain; for Mary, one way or another, he must make his. He had no
doubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; for
he knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating.
If he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so much
convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more
and more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. For when
she returned for the night her father was often out, and the house
wanted the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never
wanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It
was dingy and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the
dumb familiar home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was now very
often from home, singing at some of those grand places. And Alice;
oh, Mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live at
Ancoats with her sister-in-law. For in that matter Mary felt very
guilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow, after
George Wilson's death, from dread of meeting Jem, or giving him
reason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly;
and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likely
never to go at all.
If her father was at home it was no better; indeed, it was worse.
He seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak, they
were sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly.
Her temper was high, too, and her answers not over mild; and once in
his passion he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr.
Carson had been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready
to leave home for ever. She sat alone, after her father had flung
out of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone;
angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did not
love her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another. Who
cared for her? Mr. Carson might, but in this grief that seemed no
comfort. Mother dead! Father so often angry, so lately cruel (for
it was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened Mary's soft white
skin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and she
remembered with self-reproach how provokingly she had looked and
spoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind and
loving parent he had been, till these days of trial. The
remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged
after another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could
have behaved to him as she had done.
Then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed
her penitence in words. But she looked sullen, from her effort to
keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to
begin to speak. At length he gulped down pride, and said--
"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee. Thou wert a
bit aggravating, and I'm not the man I was. But it were wrong, and
I'll try never to lay hands on thee again."
So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her
repentance for her fault. He never struck her again.
Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better than being
silent. Then he sat near the fireplace (from habit) smoking, or
chewing opium. Oh, how Mary loathed that smell! And in the dusk,
just before it merged into the short summer night, she had learned
to look with dread towards the window, which now her father would
have kept uncurtained: for there were not seldom seen sights which
haunted her in her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with dark
glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to
ascertain if her father was at home. Or, a hand and arm (the body
hidden) was put within the door, and beckoned him away. He always
went. And once or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's
voices below, in earnest, whispered talk.
They were all desperate members of Trades' Unions, ready for
anything; made ready by want.
While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary's
heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by
asking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson. From his manner of
speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of
his visit he had never mentioned anything about it. Now, however,
he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some
abuse of her for not having been before. The little outward impulse
of her father's speech gave Mary the push which she in this instance
required; and accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid Jem's
hours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.
The outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for the
door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood. The
window-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, looked
withering and drooping. They had been without water for a long
time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for
neglect, in her ignorant anxiety she gave them too much. On opening
the door, Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way,
but knitting by the fireside. The room felt hot, although the fire
burnt grey and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun.
Mrs. Wilson was "siding"* the dinner things, and talking all the
time, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, which Mary did not at
first understand. She understood, at once, however, that her
absence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained look
on Mrs. Wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was
to come.
*To "side," to put aside, or in order.
"Dear! Mary, is that you?" she began. "Why, who would ha' dreamt
of seeing you! We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem has
often wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street."
Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her
trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of
temper. She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, and
meant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp
speeches into Jem's mouth.
Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so
for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then
turned to speak to Aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty
greeting to Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy,
trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled
it past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the
table.
"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she's
become as deaf as a post this last few weeks. I'd ha' told you, if
I'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her."
"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said
Alice, catching the state of the case, with her quick glancing eyes.
"I suppose it's the beginning of the end."
"Don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "We've had
enow of ends and deaths without forecasting more." She covered her
face with her apron, and sat down to cry.
"He was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to
Mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her
apron. "No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew his
worth like me."
Mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden
her heavy-laden heart.
"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost. When my poor boys
went, I thought the Almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but I
never thought o' losing George; I did na think I could ha' borne to
ha' lived without him. And yet I'm here, and he's"--A fresh burst
of crying interrupted her speech.
"Mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poor
creature I were when he married me? And he such a handsome fellow!
Jem's nothing to what his father were at his age."
Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor woman's thoughts
had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out,
with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.
"There were nought about me for him to choose me. I were just well
enough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain.
And there was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she
as is Mrs. Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I
never could see her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much above
her, as they're both above us all now."
Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished
also that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about the father and
mother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson's
thoughts soon returned to her husband, and their early married days.
"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose at
housekeeping as I were; and yet he married me! I had been in a
factory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought about
cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing and such like work. The day
after we were married, he went to his work at after breakfast, and
says he, 'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a
dinner for a prince.' I were anxious to make him comfortable, God
knows how anxious. And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato. I
know'd they were boiled, and know'd their skins were taken off, and
that were all. So I tidied my house in a rough kind o' way, then I
looked at that very clock up yonder,"--pointing at one that hung
against the wall--"and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I,
th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th'
fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, which
were a tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking my boxes!
and at twenty minutes past twelve, he comes home, and I had the beef
ready on th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot;
but oh! Mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty
brown mess, as smelt through all the house. He said nought, and
were very gentle; but oh! Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shall
ne'er forget it; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, but
none that fretted me like that."
"Father does not like girls to work in factories," said Mary.
"No, I know he does not; and reason good. They oughtn't to go at
after they're married, that I'm very clear about. I could reckon
up,"--counting with her finger--"ay, nine men, I know, as has been
driven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories;
good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little
ones out to nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their
fires all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to
stay in, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean
and bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a
welcome as it were."
Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had
caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had
previously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.
"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen, about factory work
for married women. Eh! but he comes it strong when once yo get him
to speak about it. Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."
"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his
missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting
some one to cheer him; and maybe, her to come in by-and-bye, just as
tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to be
at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright
fire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and
comfortless. I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served
him so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. So why
can't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?"
Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albert
could not make laws, but the answer was--
"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't she
bound to obey Prince Albert? And if he said they mustn't, why she'd
say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh, no, we never
shall do any such thing no more."
"Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not heard her sister's
last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on
her nephew, and his various talents. "He's found out summut about a
crank or tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made
him foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he
could na part wi' Jem, nohow. He's good wage now; I tell him he'll
be thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good
wife, that he does."
Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret
spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of.
But his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued
accordingly. She was not over and above desirous that her son
should marry. His presence in the house seemed a relic of happier
times, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife, whoever
she might be. Still she could not bear any one not to feel
gratified and flattered by Jem's preference, and full well she knew
how above all others he preferred Mary. Now she had never thought
Mary good enough for Jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her
still rankled a little in her breast. So she determined to invent a
little, in order to do away with any idea Mary might have that Jem
would choose her for "his right down good wife," as Aunt Alice
called it.
"Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice,
as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or
explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added--
"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th' provision
shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease her,
I'm thinking. She's been casting sheep's eyes at our Jem this many
a day, but he thought her father would not give her to a common
working-man; but now he's good as her, every bit. I thought once
he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd ever ha'
suited, so it's best as it is."
By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say,
"She hoped he'd be happy with Molly Gibson. She was very handsome,
for certain."
"Ay, and a notable body, too. I'll just step upstairs and show you
the patchwork quilt she gave me but last Saturday."
Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her words irritated
her; perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them.
Besides, she wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed to
think that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.
"Dear Alice," began Mary, "I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it
must have come on very rapid."
"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it. Pray God give me
strength to find out its teaching. I felt it sore one fine day when
I thought I'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's
cough; and the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I could
na make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song
o' the birds, and that I never should hear their sweet music no
more, and I could na help crying a bit. But I've much to be
thankful for. I think I'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one
to scold now and then; poor body! It takes off her thoughts from
her sore losses when she can scold a bit. If my eyes are left I can
do well enough; I can guess at what folk are saying."
The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and
Jane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over,
border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary did
her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up
to any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. She made
haste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoid
encountering Jem. As soon as she was fairly away from the house and
street, she slackened her pace, and began to think. Did Jem really
care for Molly Gibson? Well, if he did, let him. People seemed all
to think he was much too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhaps
some one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show him
one day that she was good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson. So
temper, or what Mary called "spirit," led her to encourage Mr.
Carson more than ever she had done before.
Some weeks after this there was a meeting of the Trades' Union to
which John Barton belonged. The morning of the day on which it was
to take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of
getting up? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium,
and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with
him. He wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its
absence occasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into a
natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly. Eight
o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read
letters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of the country.
Fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and
heavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated
by the opposition of others to their desperate plans.
It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the
gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. Unceasing, soaking
rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon
the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the
posts. The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature
seemed stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his
oilskin cape. Barton wished the others good-night, and set off
home. He had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step
behind him; but he did not care to stop and see who it was. A
little further, and the person quickened step, and touched his arm
very lightly. He turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible of
that badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of no
doubtful profession. It was told by her faded finery, all unfit to
meet the pelting of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once
pink, now dirty white; the muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking
wet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closely
wrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman
whispered, "I want to speak to you."
He swore an oath, and bade her begone.
"I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of breath, I cannot
say what I would all at once." She put her hand to her side, and
caught her breath with evident pain.
"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name.
"Stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across
him. He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off--and
dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushed
the bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have
averted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright grey
eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance
she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther;
she who had caused his wife's death. Much was like the gay creature
of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the
changed expression of the whole! But most of all, he loathed the
dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire,
had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.
"So it's thee, is it? It's thee!" exclaimed John, as he ground his
teeth, and shook her with passion. "I've looked for thee long at
corners o' streets, and such like places. I knew I should find thee
at last. Thee'll maybe bethink thee o' some words I spoke, which
put thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no!
thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy
fine draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for
very want of breath.
"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!"
She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as
belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. In vain
did her face grow deadly pale around the vivid circle of paint, in
vain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again.
"And thou names that name to me? and thou thinks the thought of her
will bring thee mercy! Dost thou know it was thee who killed her,
as sure as ever Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, and
she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held
head up again, but died in less than a three week; and at her
judgment-day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if
she don't, I will."
He flung her, trembling, sinking, fainting, from him, and strode
away. She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and lay
there in her weakness, unable to rise. A policeman came up in time
to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from Esther's
unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-
unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. The superintendent
of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing watch
through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and moanings, which
he reported as arising from intoxication. If he had listened, he
would have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but always
in the same anxious, muttering way--
"He would not listen to me; what can I do? He would not listen to
me, and I wanted to warn him! Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's
child! What shall I do? How can I keep her from being such a one
as I am; such a wretched, loathsome creature! She was listening
just as I listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be
just like my end. How shall I save her? She won't hearken to
warning, or heed it more than I did: and who loves her well enough
to watch over her as she should be watched? God keep her from harm!
And yet I won't pray for her; sinner that I am! Can my prayers be
heard? No! they'll only do harm. How shall I save her? He would
not listen to me."
So the night wore away. The next morning she was taken up to the
New Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was
committed to prison for a month. How much might happen in that
time!
Content of Chapter X - Return of the prodigal [Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's novel: Mary Barton]
_
Read next: Chapter XI - Mr. Carson's intentions revealed.
Read previous: Chapter IX - Barton's London experiences.
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